the family // emily white
Ruin is not good at drawing cathedrals, and that hasn’t been a problem in their life until now.
They’re sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a piece of paper folded in half, blank other than the smudge in the corner where a spider tried to make a crossing. To their left, a box of crayons open and mocking. All those bright colors are fun but not helpful in capturing the melancholy shades of an old stone church.
This was the brief from their father: Your half-sister is turning 13; it’s time you two met. Useless bastard couldn’t name her favorite animal but was pretty sure she was into Gothic architecture.
So, Ruin is making a birthday card for this girl about whom they know nothing, with whom they share nothing—other than a parent. An attempt is being made to forge some kind of connection via a handmade gift. When kids do it, it’s cute. Ruin is hoping the same standards will apply to a well-meaning almost-adult.
Ruin walked all the way to the local newsagent to get a real card. They stood in front of the racks for several minutes and thought about spending several dollars on something this spoilt child would throw away after a day or two.
A handmade card is personal but not extravagant. It says, I used my hands for this; it’s covered in my germs. The perfect gift for the offspring of your dad’s secret second family that you only found out about recently because someone leaked the details of your mum’s (also secret) civil lawsuit against him online and the local news ran a story about it because nothing else interesting happens in your town and someone at your school saw it on TV and then told you about it the next day in front of everyone.
A handmade card is a gesture. It says, I’m not bitter. I used the good paper.
The wooden chair squeaks with every shift of weight. It’s older than Ruin, just like the table on which they’re currently leaning, head in hands. Ruin’s parents bought the dining set from the Good Sammie’s one suburb over for a few bucks and—as the legend goes—carried it all home themselves in one trip.
A thump at the window rattles the glass and Ruin’s shoulders. They look behind them in time to see the grey mess of feathers take off again. Then from the table their phone bursts into song, signifying ten minutes to get out the door if they want to make the train on time. Which they don’t want. But they should.
Ruin curses and leans over to bang their head once on the table. That leaves another smudge on the paper. Nothing says sibling bonding like forehead oil.
Taking up the black crayon, they draw a house—who are they kidding, it’s a square with a triangle hat. Then the red crayon marks a crucifix on the roof. Not exactly the Duomo di Milano, but the idea is there.
In the bathroom, Ruin brushes their teeth while on the toilet and feels like a genius. Then, in the rush to pull up pants, flush, and spit out toothpaste all in one, they manage to drop their toothbrush in the bowl.
If only there was time to scream.
Ruin doesn’t say goodbye as they leave. They’re not sure if their mother is home. They make it to the train station with three minutes to spare. This is Ruin’s favorite amount of time to have spare when catching the train. At least something has gone right today.
The train pulls into the station, then out again.
Two trains and a bus are not the reason Ruin has never visited “Dad’s new pad”—as their mum calls it. Although it certainly is sour to know that this short lunch date will be eating most of Ruin’s Sunday.
It is rare for Ruin to find themself north of the river at all. Everything out the window looks foreign. The bins in front of the houses have different colored lids.
Within the confines of the carriage, the people feel unfamiliar, too. All the clothing looks so bland yet so expensive yet so outdated. One man is wearing a long brownish-purple robe. It’s got the big bell sleeves and everything. If it was tied around his waist with a cord, he would look like a monk. As it is open over chinos and a polo shirt, he just looks like a dag.
The train stops at an empty station. Ruin watches a crow pull a chip packet out of a bin and use it to frighten off a pigeon. The sun reflects off the crinkled foil, through the train window, into Ruin’s face. Ruin closes their eyes and counts to a thousand.
Stepping off the train, Ruin spots a second robe and wonders if there’s some kind of convention today. The increased proximity to their dad’s house is matched by an increasingly irate inner voice questioning why they ever agreed to do this. Except they know why—it was the easiest way to piss off their mum.
#
Ruin hovers in the hallway while Arthur introduces his wife, Cathleen, and his daughter, Jessica. When Ruin repeats the names back, they both correct, “Just Cath,” and “Just Jess.” This must be what it feels like to die.
They are ushered into the front living room. The way Cath specifies front, suggesting there is a back living room, makes Ruin’s scalp itch. They give the card to Jess, and time stops. Ruin has to swallow a little bit of vomit when she opens it to reveal… nothing. They forgot to write in the damn thing.
So much for making a gesture.
“Thanks. I wasn’t sick, though.” Jess cocks her head to the side as she closes the card again, trying to figure out the joke.
The joke is that Ruin has been here for two minutes and is really wishing they had followed that guy to the wizard convention.
“It’s not supposed to be a hospital. Dad said you were into Gothic architecture, so I thought… cathedrals are vaguely related to that.” Ruin looks to their dad for reassurance, support, a terrible pun, anything. He’s on his phone.
Cath asks if Ruin would like a cup of tea and then leaves the front living room without waiting for an answer. She’s gone for seven minutes, during which time no one speaks. Bangs and clangs echo down the hallway, mingling with birdsong from outside.
Ruin wades deeper into the room and perches on the edge of a cream-colored leather couch. The walls are exposed brick painted white. There is one bookshelf. It has glass doors to prevent the books from escaping.
The house is very long, but this room sticks out to the side like an elbow. Out the window into a backyard that runs parallel to the rest of the house, there are more bricks, and beyond that some dead grass. There is a barbecue, and next to that a large metal structure. Ruin realizes with a start that it’s a birdcage. A huge rectangular enclosure like you might see at the zoo. There are several different sizes and colors in there, flitting about or preening themselves.
Ruin’s palms are sweaty. There is a padlock on the cage door. There is a padlock on the front living room window. There is a padlock on the glass-doored bookshelf. Ruin can see their reflection, sort of, like inky water. They try to sit up straight.
Cath returns and puts an unnecessarily large mug of milky tea in Ruin’s hand. The eye contact could also be described as large, unnecessary, and milky, as she says, “Here you go, Ruin.”
Jess looks up from her continued inspection of the card. She is sitting feet up on the other end of the L-shaped couch. “Ruin? I thought your name was—”
“Whoa, is that the time? We’d better get going.” Arthur stands, pushes his belly out, and hikes his shorts up beneath his robe. He’s wearing the same brown robe as the guy on the train. Ruin double-takes so hard a splash of tea burns their hand. Was he wearing that this whole time? If this is some ploy from their father to distract from the fact that he’s clearly been deadnaming his oldest child behind their back, it’s working.
There’s a flurry of brown wool as Jess and Cath get up and don matching robes.
“Are—are we going to that convention?”
No one acknowledges that Ruin has spoken. Jess is now by the door putting on shoes. Are those Ruin’s old shoes? No, that wouldn’t make sense. She flicks her hair back, causing the robe to slide down her shoulder. It’s too big for her, and she’s used to it.
Maybe Ruin had a rage-induced stroke when they dropped their toothbrush in the toilet. That’s the only explanation they can come up with for what they’re seeing.
Either that, or this family has joined a cult.
Ruin supposes they shouldn’t say, “joined,” as if it happened recently, since they know pretty much diddly-squat about these people. They could have always been in a cult. It wouldn’t be the biggest thing their dad has kept secret.
“Sorry we ran out of time for lunch, kiddo. Maybe next time.” Arthur joins Jess by the door, but Cath gasps and points at Ruin, still sitting wide-eyed on the couch.
“Oh no! You haven’t had a chance to drink your tea!”
Ruin takes a sip to be polite and looks for a surface on which to abandon the beverage. Warmth travels down Ruin’s throat. Cath joins the others by the door. All three stand together in family portrait formation. Arthur’s hairy hand on his daughter’s shoulder. Three sets of eyes stare. Three sets of teeth smile.
Ruin takes another sip. Cath gives a noise of encouragement.
Honestly, Arthur forgetting about lunch and making other plans is the best possible outcome. Ruin doesn’t care if they’re not included in those plans. They look at the locked window, at the blocked doorway. They don’t know what kind of tea this is. It doesn’t taste like anything.
They keep drinking.
Seeing no other option, they keep the mug pressed to their lips, watched by three strangers, as if it is the polite thing to do. A dribble of fluid snakes down Ruin’s chin, but they keep going, looking cross-eyed into the ceramic cavern to see it’s barely half empty. The school counselor’s voice echoes in their mind, asking if they know what a pessimist is, and then explaining it at length even after Ruin said yes, they know what it means, thank you.
They feel full. They want to shut their eyes again and count down the seconds until it’s over, but the darkness in the mug holds their gaze. There’s a gentle pat, pat, as droplets fall from their chin onto the beige carpet. There is no other sound in the room aside from that and the rhythmic glug of Ruin’s throat.
The birds outside have fallen silent. Ruin’s eyes dart left to look out the window but can only see the grey outline of the cage.
There is movement in the mug. Like a muddy beast rising from a bog, there is something alive where there shouldn’t be. Ruin falls into the gaping maw of the monster, and tumbles headfirst down the eternal esophagus where they can’t scream; they can only swallow and swallow and—
Suddenly they’re spluttering, startled by a warm wet weight that smacks their nostrils. Thankfully there is nothing left to spill. They have finished, revealing the teabag previously hidden by opaque liquid. Dropped in by accident, except the string is wrapped so tightly around it. Ruin wants to call their mother to come get them.
When Ruin swallows any further coughs and wipes a hand over their chin, Cath does a single clap to convey that she is pleased.
Ruin flinches as Cath crosses the room to take the cup, then puts something else in their hand. It’s a flat rectangular package, wrapped in paper the same maroon color as the robes.
“I know it’s Jess’s birthday, but we got a little present for you as well. You can open it when you get home.”
Once again there’s no waiting for consent or dissent when a lift to the station is offered, since apparently that’s where they’re all going anyway. The family gets on a train continuing north while Ruin crosses to the opposite platform to head back into the city.
By the time they get there, they need to pee so badly they miss the connecting train to look for a toilet. The piss lasts 38 seconds. They feel nauseous, but nothing comes of it.
With time to kill before the next train, Ruin sits on the platform and opens the present from Cath. It’s a book. Nausea comes in waves, but there is only one thought on repeat in their mind:
I can’t believe Dad joined a cult without me.
Emily White is a writer and performer from Naarm/Melbourne, Australia. Motivated by conflicting desires to make people laugh and make people horny, their work usually falls into the categories of comedy and erotica. Emily is a previous winner of the Rachel Funari prize for fiction and is the creator of queer erotica zine Sap (sapzine.org).