#8: Family breakfast
It was not often that Odo remembered a family breakfast – so much so that “family breakfast” usually became ‘family brunch’ by the time he arrived to partake. Trixie’s little brother had always had a propensity to forget any date (whether important or not), even if it was set just twelve hours in advance. Trixie and her father had bought him dozens of diaries, appointment books, calendars and other organisation tools as a boy; when technology moved to mobile devices, and Trixie moved out of home, she and her friends were forever sending Odo articles trumpeting the latest time-management marvel app on the market. And he would always respond with a charitable, “Great! I’ll give it a go”. But still, Odo remained hopelessly, intractably late for everything.
So he arrived at their favourite café to meet Trixie out of breath, with water dripping from his too-long hair into the collar of his Saturday shirt, approximately one hour and 25 minutes later than they’d planned. This bluster was typical for Odo, and Trixie waved him into the seat across from her as she folded her tatty bookmark into a similarly worn Dorothy Porter paperback.
“Haven’t you read that one?” Odo gestured to the cover as she slipped the book back into her handbag.
“Not this one. Second last on the Dorothy Porter list, actually.”
Odo smiled, pulling a hand through his floppy, wet fringe. “Does this mean you’re a poetry fan now?”
“It means I’m a lesbian noir fan now,” Trixie said dryly. “And a poetry fan never.”
“There are so many collections you’d love, Trix,” Odo said. He rolled his eyes as Trixie shook her head. “Whatever! Stay ignorant. Coffee?”
“I’ve had two already.”
Odo winced, looking down at his watch: a large, old-fashioned watch face on a dark leather strap, a gift from their father, and another ill-fated effort to keep Odo punctual.
“I really did think it was 10 this time.”
“’S OK. I was up anyway,” Trixie said, trying to give the waiter at the cake display a meaningful look. “I’ve been waking up at the most annoying times this whole week.”
“Can’t be more annoying than struggling to get out of bet before like 2pm.”
Trixie frowned at her brother. “What time are you going to bed, though?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Normal time.”
“And if I hopped on Steam at, say, 3am, I wouldn’t see you logged in?”
The waiter swooped in at that very moment, slapping two laminated menus on their table. “Morning! It’s our favourite brother–sister team,” he cooed.
“Saved by the bell,” Trixie muttered.
Odo smiled up at the waiter. “Hey, Jack. Busy morning?”
“You know, it’s Saturday. It’s a public holiday.”
Odo poured over the menu, making vague comments to Jack about the almost inscrutable changes to the menu since his last visit. Trixie relaxed back in her chair, taking in the full picture of her brother: his skin sallow, as usual, and his long cheeks hollow. He always looked somehow underfed and underwatered, though Trixie knew ate enough to feed three eighteen-year-olds (and Jin often commented, with a hint of envy, that it would all catch up to him). He did look more . . . Trixie couldn’t quite pick the word for her brother’s appearance before her. Perhaps it was impermanence.
“Trix?” Both Odo and Jack were looking at her, the latter with pen poised on notepad, eyebrow raised.
“Uh?”
“Do you want food, or something? I’m buying.”
“Don’t be silly. I am,” Trixie said. “I’ll have scrambled eggs, on wholegrain. And another coffee.”
“Three?” Jack’s eyebrow shot almost to his hairline. Trixie bristled, reminded that familiarity with an establishment is always a double-edged sword.
“Yep. Three.”
Jack and Odo exchanged a quick grin, then Jack scooted away to put their order into the kitchen.
“Have you been eating?” Trixie asked.
Odo patted his flat belly. “I’m about to. Big Breakfast. Extra halloumi.”
“I’m serious. Do you have – look, do you have enough money?”
“Trix,” Odo groaned, his cheeks colouring. “I’m fine. I’m paying for breakfast, aren’t I?”
“No, I am. For real, Odo—”
“I’m fine, Trixie. Please, don’t be like Dad right now.”
Trixie sighed, then mimed zipping up her lips.
It was hard, sometimes, to be Odo’s big sister. Trixie knew so much their father didn’t about the way Odo handled some of the most important things in his life. Like how often he missed his rent and had to spend weeks paying his housemates back one dollar a day. Or like how often his perpetual forgetfulness and his inability to be on-time for anything meant he missed everything from dates to job interviews.
Since Odo had moved to Melbourne last year, Trixie felt like they were back in this little club – just like when they shared a bunk in the flats. For a whole year, Trixie and Odo had decided that no adults were allowed in their bedroom: it was for kids only. This meant their father was barred, no matter how often he tried to cajole them into letting him join their games (or break up their screaming fights) in there. Once she was older, Trixie realised their dad must have gone in their room all the time – when they were at school or playing down at the park attached to the flats without him. It was always much cleaner than she remembered keeping it, for a start. But she supposed they had liked to imagine it was just for them, a space where Trixie and Odo could play together alone.
Now, they were together alone in Melbourne again. And it felt again like it was her and Odo against their father, keeping the most important details of their lives from him, to make sure he never had to worry.
“Just ask, if you need something,” Trixie said at last. “I can help. I can always help.”
Odo smiled at his sister. “Oh, yeah, you can just dip into your millions.”
“Of course.” Trixie gave her brother’s spindly hand a little tap, then pushed her chair back. “I gotta pee.”
“Sure, sure.” Odo was already reaching across the table for her handbag, sliding the Dorothy Porter out so he could flip through it.
On her way to the bathroom, out of sight of their table, Trixie paid for breakfast, and a large wrapped sandwich for Odo to take home.
Out on the street, the pulsing traffic on Racecourse Road was encouraging a dull ache behind Trixie’s eyes. It was true she’d been up all morning, since about 4.30. Most mornings that week – her first week without work at the shop since March the previous year – she’d woken well before the sun had pitched itself up above the roofs of the houses and high-rises in Kingsville. And, no matter how long she lay in bed (nor now many episodes of The Office she played quietly in the background like a deadpan lullaby), she couldn’t get herself back to sleep.
Odo was still holding her copy of What A Piece Of Work, and Trixie gestured to it. “You want to borrow?”
“Ah, nah. I mean, you haven’t finished,” he said, rubbing his hand over his fringe again. It flopped straight back into his eyes. It really was getting much too long.
“That’s OK. Plenty to read at home. Just get it back to me when you can, because actually it’s Kit’s.”
“Cool.” Odo cocked his head to the side, giving his sister a deep look through his smudged lenses. “You OK?”
“Sure,” Trixie said. She passed a hand over her eyes, aiming for a laugh but not quite getting there. “Just tired. I don’t know. It’s been a funny old week.”
Odo nodded. He opened his long arms and Trixie gave him a hug, feeling the bones in his back through his Sunday shirt. “Eat more,” she whispered into his chest. “You’re too skinny!”
“See ya, sis,” Odo said, pulling away. He waved the Porter paperback at her, by way of a goodbye, then turned and crossed Racecourse Road against the lights, Trixie frowning after him.
“Trixie?”
Trixie was still watching her brother lope away towards Newmarket Station when she heard a voice so sweetly familiar her whole body clenched with excitement. Immediately, she began cataloguing all the things that were ungainly about her appearance that morning: the Sriracha stain on her shirt from breakfast; the untidy way she’d pulled her hair into a bun without using a hairbrush; and the greasy streak of mascara she knew she’d pushed across her lid and cheek as she’d rubbed her eyes just a moment ago. Her too-tight jeans (she so rarely even wore jeans!).
“That’s Trixie, isn’t it?”
“Hi,” Trixie said, turning with a nauseating mix of reluctance and anticipation. “Hi, Natalie.”
Natalie was there, looking as well-kept as her first appearance in Carr St. She was in athleisure gear again, and laden with chic calico grocery bags. Her ginger hair was scraped back in a high, glossy ponytail. In fact, much of her face was covered by the expensive-looking Karen Walker sunglasses that had been balanced on her head back when Trixie had first met her. But beneath them, her rather large (and, to Trixie, endearingly crooked) teeth were showing in a grin.
“I knew it was you,” she said, through a sigh. “want to know how?”
“My general air of slovenliness?” Trixie joked.
Natalie grinned wider. “Your shirt. Of course, a Carly fan would respect Whitney.”
“Oh, yeah.” Trixie looked down at her shirt. She resisted the urge to rub at the sauce stain. “Actually, it’s my dad’s shirt.”
“Your dad is a Whitney Huston fan?”
She shrugged. “I mean, Whitney was the first album I remember my dad playing in our house. But, yeah, can’t claim to be the purchaser of this shirt.”
Natalie was still smiling, and Trixie could feel her gaze focused under those sunglasses, as if taking in all Trixie’s imperfections. Trixie shifted uncomfortably. The ache behind her eyes had turned sharp – it really was sunny enough for sunglasses as big and bombastic as Natalie’s – and all she wanted was to disappear.
As if reading Trixie’s thoughts, Natalie asked, “Want a lift somewhere?”
“Ah, no, that’s OK. I can bus it.”
“Don’t be silly. Natalie gestured down a street leading back into tree-lined Flemington with her elbow, her shopping bags rustling. “I’m parked right down there. Carry one or two of these bags for me and I’ll take you anywhere you want.”
Trixie grinned. “Ah, I see. It all comes out now.”
Natalie’s car was just like Natalie: slim, sporty and well-appointed. Trixie loaded her share of the bags into the boot, and as she did, she spotted the back seat, which housed a kid’s car seat, and looked like it had been hit by some kind of raisin-and-chip-crumb bomb. She smiled, spotting dropped toys, half-empty drink bottles and discarded toddler shoes amid the clutter.
“I know, I know. Just avert your eyes,” Natalie said. “I promise the front is cleaner.”
It was, but only by a small margin. The floor of the front passenger seat was littered with old receipts and parking slips, empty lip balm cannisters and old take-away coffee cups. Natalie had to reach over and push a booklet of paint-chip samples off the seat before Trixie could climb in.
“Wow,” Trixie said. “You’re—”
“I know!” Natalie moaned.
“You’re a slob.”
“Yes,” Natalie said. “I am a slob. It’s my deepest, darkest secret. Steve was the clean one – neurotically so. When it’s just me and Olly, well . . . ” Natalie gestured around her at the filthy car.
Trixie grinned at her. “I love it! Trust me, I love it.”
“You love – mess?”
“It’s just nice to see a bit of,” Trixie paused, trying to find an inoffensive way of expressing herself. “Never mind.”
“The gym gear and the high ponies are a bit much, huh?” Natalie shot Trixie a knowing look.
Trixie laughed. “I mean, it’s different.”
Natalie shrugged. “Trixie, babe, I contain multitudes.” She grinned at the blush rising in Trixie’s cheeks. “Now, where am I taking you?”
The Broken-Heart Brigade is released via weekly e-newsletter instalments through Substack. It is supported by Matilda’s generous subscribers, Melbourne City of Literature, and the City of Melbourne COVID-19 Arts Grants.
The Broken-Heart Brigade is made in Naarm (Melbourne), on stolen Wurundjeri land that was never ceded. Matilda pays respect to the rightful Aboriginal owners of the land on which she lives and works, and hopes the readers of her writing do too.