I sat on my bedroom floor. Surrounded by laundry. In the dark.
Painting my nails black. I was clothed in the same baggy jeans I had been
wearing for the last two weeks and a holey tee-shirt. My hair was a tangled
mess and I hadn’t changed out of my bed socks in a week. Oh, what a sore sight
I must be. Nail polish spilled over the edges of my finger nails, and several drops
even slopped on the floor. That would be a bitch to clean later. I didn’t care.
That was the kind of mood I was in.
Ding Dong, Ding Dong,
Ding Ding Ding, Dong. The generic
door bell sounded through my empty house. I rolled my eyes, ignoring it. It
rang again. I groaned, pulling myself up off the floor, almost slipping on a
dinner plate. I swore and kicked it out of my way. I carefully stepped over the rest
of the obstacles, to my front door. I pulled it open, only a little; Just
enough for me to see through the slot. “What?” I growled. Obviously, I wasn’t
in the mood for pleasantries. An overweight, middle aged man stood on the other
side. “Delivery. “ He muttered. I waited, hoping he would just dump it at the
door and leave me the fuck alone. “Um... You need to sign.” He said awkwardly.
I pushed the door aside snatching the machine from his stubby hands and
scribbling the words ‘bite me’ onto
the tiny screen. “Thanks.” He murmured, frowning at my note. But he handed me
the parcel anyway. I slammed the door
behind me.
William Pears, my
name, was written in pretty curly writing on the front of the box. I know what
you’re thinking, what type of parent names their baby girl, William? Mine.
Morons. I was named after a goddamned fruit.
I shoved the parcel into the bin. It seemed unlikely that I
would want anything that was addressed to me in pretty curly writing, anyway.
You think I’m ungrateful? Maybe I am. Whatever.
I threw myself onto my unmade bed staring at my ceiling,
which was completely covered by a collage of band posters, internet memes and a
handful of photographs. Parts of it sagged in the middle, and it was a little torn
at the edges revealing the previous layer of stuff, all pretty and pink with smiling pictures of a much younger
me, laughing with my friends. A word to the wise: popularity is bullshit. I had
called it my ‘Inspiration wall’ even
though it wasn’t a wall at all, or inspirational for that matter. I had tried
to tear it all down when I underwent, what my mum refers to as my “drastic
personality change” or whatever. My kid brother jokes that the real me was abducted
by aliens and I was left in her place. Anyway, the Inspiration wall lives, partly because bits of it were actually glued
to the ceiling, and others drawn directly over the paint. Plus, there was
something in me that just couldn’t bear to take it down. Though I’ll deny I
ever said that.
A tiny ding chimed
from my laptop. I sat up, kicking my bottle of nail polish, spilling it all
over the floor. Shit. Mum was going to hate me. Stop it. I mentally reminded myself, You don’t care what she thinks. Inbox (1). Click. Click.
To William Pears,
We thank you for your
expression of interest regarding the Pears family tree. There are a number of
documents in our archives that you may be interested in. Several copies have
been forwarded to your address. Several artefacts have come into our possession.
As your parents are the closest surviving heirs, they will also be shipped to the
address provided via private courier.
Many Thanks,
Megan Thompson
Department of Genealogy
Had today’s parcel arrived by private courier? So soon? I
suddenly felt bad for being so rude to the delivery guy. I pulled my package
out of the bin and delicately unfolded the box with anxious anticipation. I
even giggled a little. Inside, wrapped in layers of blue tissue paper was an
ugly pink heart-shaped box, hand painted by my nanna and a season of Smallville.
Another birthday present from my 96 year old grandmother, who was apparently
unaware that 1. This is April and my birthday is in November and 2. That she
sent me the same season of Smallville for my “Unbirthday” in February. As if I
would watch that shit anyway. I threw the package back in the trash. Mother
would probably rescue it later.
I went back to my computer, scrolling through the parts of
the family tree I had drawn already. I scanned through the faded photographs, decades
old (and recently digital-a- fied) of the people whose blood runs through my
veins. Last year, at school, I had taken
Modern History (of course I am still technically enrolled, It’s just a matter
of showing up). The thing that bothered me most about it was that when the
teacher spoke, he spoke of people as a collective, rather than actual people; as individual beings, with
individual feelings. That was why I was so obsessed with the idea of drawing an
extensive family tree. So I can see the dead. Actually see them, as individuals. People. And there is a connection between
them and me, a connection I can no longer feel with the living. There are so
many stories there. It overwhelms me, embraces me. It’s a family, completely untarnished by
meeting. Hopelessly romanticised, but more real than any relationship I could
have with any “immediate family”.
