Page 76 of Birds of a Feather

Once in the bathroom, I hunched to look at my reflection in the mirror. The lids of my eyes were puffy and I could feel the beginnings of a stye coming up. The skin around my nose was red from my attempts to manage the snot and tears that had flowed with a staggering persistence since I’d taken Mum’s call.

I slid the mirrored bathroom cabinet open and leaned in to look for one of the spare toothbrushes Gran kept for if we stayed over. Like the packets of tampons and pads she kept in a basket next to the toilet, despite it being several decades since she’d been through menopause, she stocked the spare toothbrushes so we would have everything we’d need to feel at home.

I inhaled sharply at the sight of her own toothbrush. Yesterday, this was just Gran’s toothbrush – an unremarkable utensil for removing plaque from her teeth. But now it was Gran’s toothbrush – an artefact of her life that seemed irreplaceably valuable.

The toothbrush was standing, handle down, in a water cup, with a tube of toothpaste that had at least two rolls at its base (one must roll, not squeeze, according to her). The toothbrush’s bristles were dry – a testament to them having missed their pre-bed and post-breakfast call-up.

On the left of the water glass was the tube of BB cream, eyeshadow compact, mascara and lipstick she’d bought and worn for her reunion with Gerry. I blinked away the tears that gathered in my eyes at the thought of how happy she had seemed the night she had worn them in London.

Next to the make-up was the hairbrush that she’d had for as long as I could remember. Her delicate white hairs were coiled around the bristles – a messy tangle of her DNA; a nuclear link to her life. I resisted the urge to pull a strand to keep. What on earth would I do with it?

Unable to look at the contents anymore, I closed the cupboard door quickly. My teeth would have to wait until later.

I opened the bathroom door to find Mum loitering in the hallway.

‘Oh, Bethie.’ She pulled me into a hug. ‘How are you doing?’

Mum was wearing a long flowing green dress with a sheer green overlay adorned with large gold embroidered butterflies. She had a chunky gold necklace around her neck, which pushed uncomfortably into my collarbone.

‘I’m okay,’ I replied, exiting her embrace when I felt enough time had passed to satisfy her need to hug me.

‘How was it, staying here last night?’ she asked, looking at me intently. I could tell she was searching my face and body language for clues about my current state; she often did this when she was dissatisfied with the comprehensiveness of my verbal replies.

It had felt strange to stay in Gran’s house without her there to make sure I’d had enough to eat, was warm enough and had a glass of water beside my bed in case I woke up thirsty during the night.

I had heard Gerry get up at midnight and use the bathroom. Her footsteps were slightly heavier than Gran’s and she didn’t know which of the creaky floorboards needed to be avoided to stealthily navigate the hallway.

At about 2am, it was my turn and, as I padded down the hall, I noticed an illuminated arc on the carpet outside Gran’s door; the lamp on Gran’s bedside table was on. It seemed that grief-induced insomnia, combined with the tail-end of jet lag, was a cruel adversary for us both.

But I was glad I had stayed. I knew Gran would have wanted us to watch out for Gerry, and it comforted me to be in her house.

‘It was fine,’ I responded casually.

‘When you’re ready, come into the kitchen,’ she said, turning to walk back down the hallway. ‘I’ve got the kettle on.’

I noticed her stride seemed slightly tentative; it lacked its usual buoyancy. It struck me for the first time that she was the older generation now Gran was gone.

I entered the kitchen as Dad, Elijah, Jarrah and Gerry, who were seated around the table, all erupted into laughter.

‘Hey, Bethie,’ Dad said when he spotted me. ‘How are you?’ His voice was deeper than usual, and his face contorted into an exaggerated frown. It was a look I came to expect from everyone I encountered over the following days.

‘I was just telling Gerry about the time we gave your gran a ride on a Harley-Davidson for her eightieth birthday,’ he said as I sat down at the table.

Gran had always wanted a ride on a motorcycle, so we recruited the services of Daz – an entrepreneurial biker – and his Harley-Davidson to take her for a spin. Daz’s Harley had a sidecar, which we’d assumed she would find more comfortable than riding two-up. But she insisted on sitting on the sliver of seat left behind him once he had positioned his enormous body on it.

‘If Queen Elizabeth could ride a horse at ninety, I can throw a leg either side of a motorcycle at eighty,’ she announced defiantly. Daz roared with laughter. The rest of us worried that we might have caused the birth and death dates on her headstone to match.

Gran loved the ride but told us afterwards that, as they had hurtled down the freeway at 100 kilometres per hour, the wind had caused Daz’s beard, which hung down to his belly button, to split at his chin, wrap around either side of his head and tickle her face like two hairy tentacles.

‘Maybe we can have a Harley pull her casket along on a trailer?’ Jarrah offered enthusiastically.

‘Nice idea, Jarrah,’ Dad said kindly as I was about to snap a retort, ‘but I think those types of traditions are reserved for bikies and people who have ridden all their lives.’

I felt tension creep into my shoulders. I had prepared myself for the fact that my family would approach organising Gran’s funeral in much the same way they threw together most of the events in their lives – with complete disregard for methodical processes.

‘Did Gran ever specify what she wanted for her funeral?’ I probed, opening the notes app in my phone to retrieve some thoughts I’d jotted down during one of the hours I lay awake the night before.

‘Not that I remember.’ Mum leaned her chin on her hand as she searched for memories.

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