Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Uncle Mal was drunk when he told me. It was Christmas night and we were sitting in the courtyard of the house mum and I rented in Fitzroy. Only Mal and I were out there as mum took a nap on the couch in the lounge room. Over the previous few hours the two of them had drunken everything in the house, including a half-bottle of butterscotch schnapps that had been open in the cupboard for as long as I can remember.
They seriously would never grow up. I was the eighteen year-old, and I was the only sober person in the house.
Anyway. I now divide my life into two parts. The phase of my life until that point where everything was a lie, and now, after he ‘spilt the beans’.
Everything in the yard had gone quiet. Mum had fallen asleep on the couch about 15 minutes ago, and the iphone playlist of crappy Christmas songs had just finished. He walked over to the dock and looked through his phone for something. He looked in at mum on the couch, as if to check she was still asleep, and then, a few seconds later, I heard the familiar voice of Noah Fitzgerald wafting through the speakers.
“I’ve never heard this song before” I stated, surprised as I had most of his catalogue in my iTunes.
“This is the band Noah Fitzgerald was in before he got famous”. I nodded slowly, of course I’d read about his history. Being the daughter of a music journalist, it was hard not to know even a little bit about most musicians. But I’d never tried to track down his old albums.
“It’s good”
“You know your mum was friends with him back in the day” he stated.
I shook my head before I’d even processed his comment. Not only would mum have told me if she knew Noah Fitzgerald (she bragged about all the rock stars she had met over the years), but she didn’t make friends with musicians. She said she needed to remain independent.
“She was”, he continued, no doubt reading my mind.
“Mum doesn’t make friends with musicians”. I challenged.
“Now.” He paused for minute “She doesn’t make friends with musicians now. That’s because of Noah Fitzgerald.”
“What?”
“She was in love with him”, he stated as if it was the most normal thing in the world to tell someone that their mother once loved a famous person, “And I’m pretty sure he loved her too. In his own way. Fame is a funny thing”.
The courtyard had become a very uncomfortable place to be. I could see mum inside on the couch, oblivious of the conversation. I stared at her, trying to read her mind to understand if what I was hearing was true or not.
“Why are you telling me this? If it’s true, why has no one told me this before?”
“You’re eighteen, Sarah. You deserve to know who your father is”.