4338.208 · July 27, 2018 AD
Relief That Arrived Too Neatly
There's something cruel about relief when it arrives by text—too quiet for the panic it replaces. Greta has been pacing her Adelaide lounge room for an hour, each unanswered call jabbing like a needle. Luke won't pick up. When he finally responds to her text, the words are simple, reassuring, exactly what a worried mother needs to hear. And something about them feels deeply, inexplicably wrong. The compass she uses to understand her family has started pointing somewhere unfamiliar.
Luke stares at his mother's name illuminating the screen for the third time in an hour. He can't answer. Can't navigate the careful dance of half-truths whilst his mind reels from Paul's outburst, Thelma's key, Pierre's apocalyptic hints. The lies are multiplying beyond his capacity to track them.
Text is easier. Text gives him time to construct a reality before committing it to someone else's memory.
Paul is in Hobart with me. I bought him a plane ticket. They had a massive argument. He just needs a break.
In Adelaide, Greta reads the words and feels relief strike her so suddenly it's physical—a released bird rising from her chest. Paul is safe. Not missing. Not hurt. Just away.
But something twists in her gut. Paul accepting help from Luke? Paul, who carries his stubborn pride like a badge of honour? The compass she uses to understand her family has started pointing somewhere unfamiliar.
She talks herself out of the unease. Luke puts the phone face-down.
Neither of them knows how worried she should actually be.
