A Room Called Earth

  Whenever she experimented with new recipes, or flavors, she’d get really worked up, and flustered, and red in the face. Then Dad would come in and “fix it,” and quickly go out and buy her prescription medication from the chemist so that she could take it at bedtime, because, “a headache is definitely coming on.” One time she tried to make spanakopita from scratch and she was in bed for a week afterward.

  Dad saw his time in the kitchen as relief from work, and yet he never seemed relieved. It was always very high stakes. It was about meeting the needs of recipes, and of other people, and ensuring that everything in the pantry, and in the fridge, and on the spice rack, was fully stocked, and consumed before it went off.

  The kitchen was more like a military operation than a space for relaxation. “Waste not, want not!” he’d chant. “It’s just as much of a waste inside of me as it is on the plate if I don’t want it or feel like eating it!” I’d chant back. He saw this as a very privileged position, which it was. Although, the fact that people are starving and dying of thirst all around the world has nothing to do with whether or not I eat all of my mashed potato, and everything to do with the fact that billions of us are refusing to build infrastructure that can distribute the earth’s resources lovingly and mindfully.

  Anyway. Every day before school, Dad would toast me a blueberry bagel and pack my lunch box with, like, leftover pesto pasta and seasonal fruit salad. He saw himself as the Leftover King, and he would plan all of our meals, and the ways in which the leftovers would be divvied up and administered. Not one scrap of food went unaccounted for.

  Even when I wanted to start making my own breakfasts and packing my own lunches, he kept offering to do it for me. He’d get up really early and be in the kitchen reading the newspaper and having a cup of tea when I was making my meals. He’d ask me what I wanted from the market, and what I was up to that day, and how I had slept, and he’d want to hug before I was ready to, and then he would forget to buy whatever I’d asked for from the market, and he would say that it was too difficult, and that he couldn’t carry it, and, I mean, I needed to write it on the list, and not just tell him about it, and I’d better not ask for cherries again, because they went wrinkly at the back of the fridge that one time, remember?

  Then I’d rock up at school with something that I had put together—maybe a banana and a crunchy peanut butter sandwich—and my friends would look at me, puzzled, and be like, “Geez, just let your dad do it! You’re being ridiculous! It’s so sweet of him! I wish my dad would make my lunches! My dad never sets foot in the kitchen!”

  Dad lives on in this kitchen. He and I are united here through time and space. I’ll always be aware of the fact that he doesn’t enjoy plant-based cheese, or the addition of coriander because, to him, the taste of cilantro is “too overpowering for any dish.” My sprinkling of Himalayan rock salt over the top of the toasted, hardened, buttery bread would be detrimental to his health, and he would brush it off. The mess that I’m going to leave on the kitchen counter wouldn’t please him, either. Leaving dishes until the morning irritated him, and he’d always get to them before I had a chance to, and then he’d bitch about it to Mum.

  She’d really like this sandwich. Although, she’d never have made it for herself. And even if I had been making these sandwiches every day, she wouldn’t have eaten them. She’d have opted for eating the sandwiches that Dad made, with the ingredients that he chose to provide.

  49.

  I just have to go out and get the coriander, I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh, can I come?”

  “Ok.”

  “I was wondering what lay beyond that window. I could only see my reflection in it before and . . . there’s a pool. Of course there’s a pool. I can see your altar from here, too. It’s gleaming.”

  “Yeah, you can see it from quite a few positions around the property. I put it there for that reason. It’s also on this energy-meridian-ley-line thing or something.”

  “More thunder.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Porkchop doesn’t seem too fazed?”

  “No. He’s freakishly calm in a storm.”

  “I wonder what time it is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have so many herbs.”

  “I know. There’s a vegetable garden and an orchard, too. It takes quite a bit of work to care for them in the heat. They’ve got screens over them right now, and there isn’t any lettuce. Lettuces are the most problematic in the summer, which is why I have store-bought iceberg at the moment. Sorry about that.”

  “Are the tomatoes from the garden?”

  “Yeah. I’d make my own cheese, too, if I could be bothered. I go through phases.”

  “I get that.”

  “Do you garden?”

  “Ah. Yeah.”

  “Smell this.”

  “Lovely.”

  “I adore how all of these know how to grow without getting in their own way. They just reach for life around all of the rocks, and all of the challenges. Nothing can stop them. They just give themselves to the world. It’s so . . . easy in nature.”

  “Totally.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Do you want me to shut that door?”

  “No, no, it’s ok. Leave it open.”

  “Can I be honest with you about something?”

  “Sure.”

  “I, umm. Find this place really sad. Can I say that? I obviously haven’t seen all of the rooms or anything. There’s just a feeling about it. You’ve done beautiful things to it. I just . . . yeah.”

  “If you didn’t know what had happened to my family, would you feel the same way?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I think so?”

  “Ok.”

  “Porkchop’s following me.”

  “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  50.

  Ok, we’re ready. Want to take your sanga?”

  “Sure. Yum.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Have you read all of these books?”

  “Most of them.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Books are my third parent.”

  “True.”

  “Why don’t you sit in the big chair?”

  “Was that your dad’s?”

  “No, no. He would’ve hated that thing. His reading chair is in another room. I bought that one a couple of Christmases ago.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen many round chairs? Or couches?”

  “It’s a snuggle chair.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh my. I’m not sure I’ll ever want to get out of it?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I don’t want to stain it?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Oh, no. Porkchop beat me to it!”

  “Man of the house. You can sit with him, though, if you want?”

  “Way too intimidating. So what did your dad do?”

  “He was an academic.”

  “Did he write books?”

  “Yeah. I still receive royalties from them and stuff. They’re pretty highly regarded in academic circles, apparently. I can show them to you if you want. They’re in another room. I haven’t read them. So. I don’t have much to . . . say about them.”

  “Right? Why not?”

  “Umm. Growing up I always imagined that I’d read them once Mum and Dad had died. And I imagined them dying . . . you know. Like, later on. When I saw myself reading their work, I was older and I had lived my own life and developed my own ideas about things. There was a stronger sense of distance between me and them, or something. I didn’t see myself as reading their work now. It seems too soon.�
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  “Would I have heard of them?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Ok. I’d better stop talking now and have a bite of this. It looks amazing. I’m not entirely used to plant-based sandwiches. I’m excited, though.”

  “Ok.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shit, yeah. Thank you. Fucking yum.”

  “Yay.”

  Ok, so eating is one of the most exposing and vulnerable acts you can witness a person participating in. How they interact with nourishing themselves reveals how they interact with life.

  He takes big mouthfuls and savors each one. He goes out of his way to get a little bit of every ingredient into his gob in one go. Then, he closes his eyes, and experiences it, passionately, before plunging in and taking another voluminous bite and going through the motions all over again. He doesn’t try to make the sandwich more contained via nibbling at its edges, or quickly catching blobs of avocado in his mouth as they cascade out the bottom. He lets them fall, before picking them up with his oily fingers and adding them to the mouthful that he’s currently chewing.

  When I was in high school, girls in my year level told me that it was best not to eat in front of boys. Even if the plan was to go out for food together, it was preferable to opt for a smoothie, or a milkshake, or a juice, or a coffee. So they’d sip their dainty drinks and smile as their companions ate with their mouths open, and talked and laughed their way through chicken parmas, and burgers, and chips, and fizzy drinks.

  One girl who had been in a relationship for almost eight months was adamant that her boyfriend had never, ever, seen her eat—and she was very proud of this. I asked them if they ever took shits at their boyfriends’ houses and they looked at me as if I was an evil goblin out to get them, because I was.

  I’ve always eaten in front of boys and men, and I’ve always taken dumps at their houses. Both activities are basic human rights. When you’ve gotta eat, you’ve gotta eat, and when you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go. Wearing a corset isn’t in fashion anymore so I’m not about to use dieting, or restriction, in its place.

  However, I do enjoy eating slowly and steadily. I don’t like too many ingredients falling out of a sandwich, either. That annoys me. I want to taste everything, in small mouthfuls. I want to be in control, and fully conscious as I eat. Yet, sometimes, the social situation surrounding the act of eating overwhelms me, and I find myself eating mindlessly or I need to stop eating altogether.

  “I’m going to polish this off pretty fucking fast.”

  “I wish I’d made you another?”

  “No, no. One is perfect.”

  “Ok. Well, I don’t think I can finish this. You can have it if you want?”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, yeah, please. I’m kind of tired. Would you be up for sleeping?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like, actually sleeping. I could put you in one of the spare rooms, or you could sleep with me. I just . . . when I say I need sleep, I mean it. I don’t mean sex, and I don’t mean fooling around. I’m too tired. Is that ok?”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “Sorry, you’re just having your last mouthful.”

  “No, no, all done—right with you. Delicious. Seriously. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Are you ok in the dark? I can’t be bothered turning the lights on.”

  “Yep, yep. Oops! Are these the stairs?”

  “Yep, we’re going upstairs.”

  “Ok.”

  “Here.”

  His hands are so elegant and yet so unexpectedly clammy, and callus-y. I read in a book by Louise Hay that calluses are to do with our ideas and fears solidifying or something. Although, a psychic once said to me that I developed them because I’m holding on to the world too tightly. She saw my calluses as a strong desire to stay here, and to survive.

  We’re almost at my room, and I’m making a conscious effort to walk slowly, because I love holding hands. Only one boyfriend has ever really held my hand, and it was when we were crossing the road, as if I was his little girl and he was my daddy. Most of my boyfriends have put their arms around my shoulders when we’re walking down the street, which has sometimes felt too heavy and cumbersome. Then, at other times, the weight of them has felt calming and reassuring. My last boyfriend shared with me that when he put his arm around me, it wasn’t for me. It was for him when he was feeling scared, and unsteady.

  “What a room.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever slept in a four-poster bed?”

  “I’m going to open the balcony doors so that we can hear the rain when it comes and then I’m going to pass out. I can already smell it. Mmm. Do you need anything?”

  “No, no. I’m good.”

  “Cool.”

  “I just realized how tired I am.”

  “Lightning.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Goodnight, then.”

  “Goodnight.”

  51.

  I just dreamed about him. We were sitting at the party again and we were talking, and it was exactly the same as before, except there was a cliff next to us, which dropped directly into the ocean. The sky was bright blue, and there were waves crashing at the bottom of the massive decline. I could feel the spray from it on my face. He didn’t seem to notice or to be bothered by it. So we kept talking and talking. Then, all of a sudden, he became distracted and stood up, and turned around, and lost his balance, and slipped, and I reached out, and caught him with my left hand, and it wasn’t too difficult for me to hold on to him. He was just hanging there, and he goes, “Let me fall, let me fall,” and I was like, “Are you sure? I can hold on to you?” and he said, “I need to fall, I need to fall.” So I let him.

  52.

  He’s crashed into my room like a spaceship. He doesn’t snore, although he’s clearly sleeping very deeply. Maybe that’s the effect of the alcohol. I might stroke his hair and see if he stirs. Nope. Nothing. Very still.

  He has this effortless quality about him, which is a bit worrying. I wonder if he’s ever truly hit the bottom of any feeling. I can imagine that there’s always been someone or something to distract him from himself. Like, he’s drifted a bit, and floated about without realizing it, and now he anchors himself through sleep.

  He’d be the kind of guy to engage in a stimulating discussion, or some sort of tragedy would occur in his family, or someone at work would upset him, and he’d have to go to sleep immediately. I’m the opposite. I can’t sleep unless I feel safe. I’m surprised that I managed it just now.

  The sun has risen, and it’s raining outside. I love his shoulders. They’re enormous. They’d probably threaten other men. I bet he’s been teased and bullied a lot because of the size of his shoulders. He has a big heart, too, which most people can’t handle. People think that courage isn’t inherent, and that it must be worked for and earned. So those who exhibit effortless strength, and love, become dangerous and untrustworthy. Then, the only way to reclaim power in their presence is to try to take theirs away from them.

  I once read a story about a man who traveled to a village. He wanted to get to know the people living there and their ways of life. He was working in the fields when all of the villagers started screaming and running, and he turned around and saw that they were running from a watermelon.

  So he went up to the watermelon and held it between his hands and lifted it up to them and said, “It’s just a watermelon!” They all stopped and looked at him in horror. Then he put the watermelon down and sliced it up into pieces, and went, “See, you can even eat it. It’s delicious. Look!” He shoved some watermelon into his mouth, and chewed it, and swallowed it, and relished in every last piece of it, and allowed its juices to pour down his chin. “See?”

  The villagers swarmed upon h
im, and tied him up, and nailed him to a crucifix, and tortured him over the course of three days until he died.

  Another man arrived at the village and wanted to get to know the people living there and their ways of life. He was working in the fields when all of the villagers started screaming and running. He turned around and saw that they were running from a watermelon, and he thought it was ridiculous. I mean, it was just a fucking watermelon. Nevertheless, he decided to run and scream, too.

  He spent years running and screaming alongside all of the villagers. He even started an anti-watermelon campaign and declared war upon the watermelons. All of the people in the village adored him, and looked up to him, and were so thankful for the protection and care that he provided for them.

  53.

  His hair is quite oily. He mustn’t wash it much. It’s like his dirty little secret. His one indulgence in depravity. He smells a bit, too. Smoky and sweet near his armpits. The rain just got heavier. I always miss the rain when I’m not dancing in it.

  It’s so weird when people don’t go outside to enjoy the rain, or to see a rainbow when it appears, because they’re “in the middle of something.” It’s like, I’m sorry? Do you have better things to do? Like, what better things are there to do? What pressing or urgent matters could there possibly be to attend to? It’s fucking raining! There might be a fucking rainbow! Beings from other planets and dimensions would do anything to be a part of this and to witness this shit! Get outside, dammit!

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Hey.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I love that sound.”

  “Me too.”

  “Did you sleep?”

  “A bit, I think.”

  “You seem really awake.”