New Animal, Ella Baxter [best books to read for success .txt] 📗

before shoving it in my mouth. The chewy gunk of it swells between my teeth, but I push through each chew. Jack is a man of routine, right down to the bag of lollies he keeps in the car and the eager welcome at the terminal. Most trips to Tasmania have either begun with a swim at the beach or a walk through the Museum of Old and New Art, as he believes it’s important to immediately assimilate to life here. Both art and ocean are key to that, in his opinion. I suspect he’s trying to wash the scent of Vincent off.

Although this is not a usual visit, I am conscious that this is not the time to suggest a variation to the program. It would put far too much pressure on both of us to find new ways of relating to one another right now.

I check my phone and see I’ve missed calls from Vincent and Simon. There’s a message from Carmen asking if I’m alright. One from Hugh asking if I need to talk. Many from Vincent, with the latest pleading with me to ring him. The only reason he knows I’m not dead, he writes, is because he checked the bathroom cabinet in the bungalow and can see I’ve taken my hair straightener. Simon sends a simple message asking me to call him back. Their grief is now pointed at me, but I am the one grieving the most—I am the arrowhead of sorrow. I need this; I am demonstrating self-care. If anything, I should be congratulated for being proactive. For protecting my mental health. I switch my phone off and drop it to the bottom of my handbag as Jack turns into the entrance of the grey and rust-coloured monolith that is MONA.

Inside, we descend gradually into the dark exhibition space like cave divers, moving down into the hollowed-out earth via the spiral staircase that wraps around the lift shaft. High sandstone walls loom above as we emerge into the belly of the building. Jack and I knock into each other regularly, struggling to adjust to being in such close proximity. Without saying much, we intuitively bump our way to the cocktail bar, where he orders a wine for each of us. As we stand at the bar waiting, he looks at me closely, as if I fell from the sky fully formed, as if he didn’t witness my slow ascent into adulthood. Having a fully grown daughter seems repeatedly shocking to him. When I dig around in my handbag to check my phone is truly off, he peers intently at my two silver rings, and then at my ponytail, as if trying to get a sense of who I am. I suspect he is trying to gather information on things we share, familiar traits.

‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’ he asks.

‘No.’

He nods. ‘You’ve probably got enough on your plate.’ He leans his forearm against the bar, then straightens up, looking around the room. ‘This place is really something else.’ He takes a big sip from his glass. ‘I’m glad you and I could come here today and do this together.’ He waves his glass towards a low-lit exhibition space. ‘Your mother loved art. Anything abstract was her thing. Landscapes too. Frescos …’ He raises his eyebrows probably realising he doesn’t quite know what else, and then drains his glass. ‘Shall we?’

I hover for a moment, in case he suggests we have another glass of wine first, because I could definitely do with a couple more, but he’s already walking towards a huge canvas filled with black brushstrokes. I catch up to him and we stop and stare at the painting. It is so wide that if I stand close enough, it swallows each side of my peripheral vision, and all I can see is black, which is a welcome respite from all the colour of the day.

‘And how has work been?’ Jack asks.

‘Good,’ I say.

We walk on, pausing in front of more artworks, but I find myself looking back towards the bar longingly. We could have had another drink. Being in a gallery, however wonderful, is all a bit too surreal for me at this moment. Looking at art while grieving is an experience that I am not entirely loving. I can tell already that the black painting was the highlight, and that everything from now on in will be tolerable, but not entirely the balm I need for my particular mother-shaped wound. In this instance, a swim would have been better.

‘What do you think?’ Jack asks, as we stop in front of a soup bowl filled with hundreds of tiny glass pigs.

‘Lovely,’ I say.

‘Aren’t you glad we came?’

I look around the familiar space, at the golden light gleaming along exposed rock surfaces.

‘Kind of.’

As we continue further into the gallery, our hands brush a few times, and I move away until there is a wide enough gap that I know it won’t happen again. We find our way into a bright white room. There are blue neon lights hanging from the ceiling at chest height, and underneath the swaying tubes is a gigantic red button sticking out of the floor like a siren. The tubes light up from the outside in, layer by layer, edging closer to the button.

I stand at the perimeter of the installation, as Jack pushes two lights apart and walks between them. ‘This looks like an invitation,’ he says, working his way in until he’s standing in the thicket of lights, next to the button.

‘Are you sure we’re allowed to do that?’ I ask nervously.

He squeezes one of the tubes, testing its strength. ‘I think they want us to interact with the art,’ he says. He tugs on the tube. ‘Industrial,’ he says under his breath.

I thread my way through to him carefully as he looks down at the button on the floor for a moment before stamping on it confidently. A woman’s voice booms into the room. No,