Slow Grind (Men of Mornington)

“Hello,” I answer, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of my tone.

“Aubrey? Is that you, sweetie?” Her voice is so saccharine, I’m nearly gagging, and all I can think about is how badly she fucked up all our lives.

The downward spiral of our turmoil-filled relationship started just after I turned twelve. My father was a professor at Monash University, which is ironically where he met my mum before Max was born. Our home wasn’t far from the University, so it wasn’t atypical for me to pop in to spend time with my dad while he was grading papers or between lectures. Apparently, my mother didn’t take this into account when she decided to have an affair with his TA … in his office … while he was in the lecture hall teaching his class. It was nearly ten years ago, but I remember it vividly, which, after years of therapy and medication, I wish I didn’t.

Out of all the things I forget on a daily basis—where I put my keys, where the laptop charger is, if I did my homework, or have I called home to my brother yet this week—it’s the one thing that stays lodged in my head.

The first person I told about the scandal was my big brother, who urged me to keep my mouth shut. He was six years older than me and for a while, I thought he was right, so I took his advice. Then my mother kept coming home later, making excuses to go to campus at random hours and had even invited her lover to the house for dinner. That was my last straw. I had to do something. I wanted to keep everyone happy, but even at twelve, I knew it was wrong for her to let my father look stupid in his own home.

So I told him.

Three months later, their divorce was final. My mother looked at me like I was the one who ruined her perfect little family, and that’s when I decided to go back to the States with my dad when he accepted a teaching position at the high school level. It was definitely a step down career wise, but he used to say that’s what he was passionate about—teaching children while they’re still young enough to care.

“Of course it’s me, who else would it be?” I finally choke out. “What’s going on? It’s three in the morning. Why are you calling me?” And why do you sound so damn happy to be speaking to me? The last time we spoke, she was screaming at me, telling me what a selfish child I was. All for ruining her perfect little affair.

“I need to talk to you about something very important, sweetie.”

I cringe. Has she had a stroke? That’s really the only explanation for her behaviour.

“Just spit it out, Mother,” I huff, turning on the overhead light. There’s no way I’m going back to bed after this. If I wasn’t awake before, I certainly am now. “What’s the big emergency? Is it Max? Has something happened?”

I had never really made the trip back to Australia to visit my mother since we didn’t have much to say to her, but Max came here to visit as often as he could. Once he got past his first year of college, the visits became shorter and longer apart. I knew he was growing up and he had more important things to do than visit with his kid sister. I never held it against him, and I still don’t.

When I turned sixteen, the courts said if I didn’t want to communicate with my mom, I didn’t have to, and I didn’t. The phone calls and letters about how I was doing—the fake shit—stopped, and I never thought twice about it. My life was easier without having to worry about her shit. But she’s still my mother, and I still feel a twinge of hurt when I think about how easy it was for her to forget me. I know our lack of contact is as much my fault, but she’s the parent, not me.

“Watch your tone, Aubrey,” she snaps harshly. Ah, there’s the mother I remember. I hear the voices of other people in the background and her being extra nice to me begins to make sense. She has to let everyone know her daughter is an important part of her life by being the perfect mum. And now I’m gagging again.

“This is important,” she adds, her voice quieter. “Are you sitting down?”

“Yes, I’m sitting,” I lie as I pace around the room. I know my mum likes to be a drama queen, but something tells me this is serious, so I stop the attitude and just listen.

“It’s Max, honey. He’s sick.”

My world stops in that very moment. Max is never sick. Since his cancer went into remission when he was eighteen, it’s like he was bitten by some super-power-giving outback spider that makes it so you don’t even get a cold. He’s so healthy—like all the time. He watches what he eats, works out regularly and even takes vitamins. Max and sick are words I never thought I’d hear again in the same sentence. No wonder it’s an emergency.

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask, hoping it’s going to be something silly like a cold, but something in my gut tells me it’s going to be much worse.

“I think it’s time you come home, Aubrey. Max is going to need you, honey.”

“Need me for what? Please just tell me, Mother,” I sigh, getting sick of her spinning me in circles.

“It’s cancer. It’s back.”

“Shit,” I say, my worst fears confirmed. “What did the doctor say? How bad is it? I need more than just ‘the cancer is back,’ Mum.”

“We’ve known for a while. He’s been getting treatments, but they don’t seem to be working. We’re out of options, and he’s going to be in rough shape. It’s time you come home and spend some time with him before …” Her voice cuts out as if she can’t finish the statement, but she doesn’t have to. I know exactly what she means.

Before he dies.

But Max can’t die. He’s Max. He’s my person. My lifeline. My piece of home when I start to miss Melbourne, my old friends, and my childhood bedroom. He’s the one person I know will always be there for me. No matter what. He’s mine.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why didn’t Max tell me?”

“He didn’t want to, honey. We were certain these treatments would work, and he’d be all fine, and you’d be none the wiser. Your father didn’t want to get you all upset about something that wasn’t going to be a tragedy.”

“Wait. Dad knew?” I ask, hurt.

“Of course he did. He’s Max’s father, Aubrey.”