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

big dog or something, having a body; it’s kind of more than you need.’

I blink at him. I’m really not sure where this conversation is going to or coming from. I give my flesh one final squeeze before letting go, and then reach for the biscuit tin again.

‘And I was thinking that this is why you and I should start doing transcendental meditation,’ Jack tells me. ‘There’s an app I can get for our phones, and then we can just lie back and unplug from the matrix. What do you think?’ He adds: ‘Get the jump on science, and exist on a mental plane that is of our own creating.’

‘I might go for a walk,’ I say, pushing myself up from the table.

Jack looks dejected at my lack of enthusiasm, so I lean over the counter and raise my hand to high-five him. It’s something I wouldn’t normally do, but I don’t want to upset him more than he is already. He smiles sadly and smacks his palm into mine, making the nerves in my hand spark, and I shake it out as I slide open the door to the deck.

Jack has talked about erosion for years, and all the ways he’s noticed his land being absorbed slowly by the water. When Simon came home from a visit last year, he said that Tasmania seemed smaller. He said it was drier and there were more lizards, and I’m not sure if that’s the weather or not, but it does feel a little different. It’s smaller, and I’m bigger, and neither of us can remember the size the other was.

I stand on the lawn and look back at the house, where I can see Jack standing at the stove stirring steadily. Either side of the house is dark for miles, which makes the tiny yellow square with my father in it all the more lonely.

I remember my mother telling me that the ancient Aztecs would mark the end of the year by making everyone turn out their lanterns, until the village was completely black, then they would walk up a mountain together and watch their ruler kill someone by slicing open their chest and lighting a fire on their heart. Everyone would line up with their own small lantern, which they would relight from the sacrificed person’s heart-fire. I wonder if it was an honour to be chosen for the role, or if you would live in terror once they had decided on you. Would the king pick the people who seemed more flammable? The passionate ones, the ones who burned brightly before the hole was even cut into them? People like me? I could light this whole island up with my heart-fire. We would have light for weeks fuelled by the feelings that stick out of my chest like kindling.

I keep walking along the edge of the property, touching my hand to my sternum, tracing the length of it all the way down to the top of my diaphragm. I imagine my chest like a bonfire, lighting up the glossy surface of the river. I poke my fingers along one side of my ribcage, distracted by the space between each one. I could set fire to them too, but the night gently pinches me home, sending a swarm of mosquitoes that bite at my ankles and wrists, and I return to the house with my back to the water.

Inside, the only light is from the study, where I can hear Jack steadily clicking his computer mouse, his dinner next to him. He’s left a bowl of food for me on the bench, and the cling film sags with heavy drops of condensation. On my way to the bedroom, I peek into the study to see him peering at the screen, scrolling through rows of hand-painted ginger jars, and he’s shaking his head, as if disappointed by them all.

In my room I keep the light off so I can see the banksia outside, and think of all the beautiful things I would have incorporated into my mother’s funeral. All the intricate details I would have curated if I wasn’t so consumed by my own horrible feelings. I’m sure no one has any idea what poem to read out. She liked the one by E.E. Cummings, the one about carrying a heart around or something like that. They wouldn’t know what to dress her in either. Whatever they’ve picked, I’m sure it’s wrong, because it will be influenced by their own memories of her, not things she actually loved. She would have wanted to wear her cashmere jumper. She loved it so much that she moved differently when she wore it. She loved dahlias the size of soccer balls. And they should play Leonard Cohen—nothing too upbeat; she didn’t ever pretend to be upbeat when she wasn’t. Judy’s sausage rolls would be perfect for the wake, and she would have wanted a flowering plant as her headstone. She should be buried wearing her grandmother’s pinkie ring and her father’s watch. But I have left her with a bunch of people who know none of these facts. My mother loved funerals, and I have abandoned her and will have nothing to do with hers. She would never have done this to me. I’ve made a huge mistake, and it feels exactly how you’d think it would.

CHAPTER NINE

I sit on the bed and call Judy, but it goes straight to her voicemail.

‘Judy, it’s me. I don’t think this is the right choice. I should be there. Can you get dahlias? Orange ones. Big ones. She would have wanted to wear the watch—it’s upstairs in the wooden box near the sewing machine. And the pinkie ring. It will be on her side of the bed near the lamp and she needs to be wearing it. Leonard Cohen was her favourite; please make sure you play one of his songs. Can you call me back when you get this? I need to