White Noise, page 1
White
Noise
White
Noise
Raelke Grimmer
First published in 2024 by
UWA Publishing
Crawley, Western Australia 6009
www.uwap.uwa.edu.au
UWAP is an imprint of UWA Publishing
a division of The University of Western Australia
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Copyright © Raelke Grimmer 2024
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
ISBN: 978-1-76080-285-1
Cover design by Hazel Lam
Typeset in 10 point Tuna by Lasertype
Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF COUNTRY
White Noise is set on Larrakia Country in Garramilla/Darwin and I acknowledge the Larrakia people as the Traditional Custodians of the lands on which I live, work and create, and which inspired so much of this novel. I pay my respects to Elders past, present and future. I acknowledge that sovereignty was never ceded and that I continue to live and work on unceded land.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Raelke Grimmer grew up writing in the hills and foothills of Kaurna Country in South Australia and has lived in Darwin on Larrakia Country since 2016. She writes YA, poetry and creative nonfiction. Raelke’s work has been published in Westerly, Kill Your Darlings, Griffith Review and Meniscus, and she was shortlisted in the Poetry Award in the 2023 Northern Territory Literary Awards. She is a founding editor of Northern Territory literary journal Borderlands, a publication showcasing the very best of Northern Territory and First Nations storytelling. In 2023, Raelke was a participant in Creative Australia’s Digital Fellowship Program and is a 2024 recipient of an online ArtsNT Varuna Fellowship. She holds a PhD in Creative Writing from Flinders University and is a Senior Lecturer in English Language and Linguistics at Charles Darwin University.
For
Mum, Dad,
Hadyn and Marty
One
It’s three in the morning. Dad’s yelling out in his sleep again. It happened a lot after Mum died. But it’s been a while now since the last time.
I get out of bed. Go down the hall. He’s twisted up in the sheet. Yelling gibberish. Sweat glistens on his forehead. I shake him.
He jolts awake. Sits upright, breathing fast.
‘Em?’ Dad looks at me. Eyes wide. Bloodshot.
I hand him the glass of water he keeps on his bedside table.
‘Thanks.’ He takes a long sip.
I climb into the other side of the bed. Cocoon myself in the doona he keeps for show but never uses. His heart’s still pounding. I can hear the chaotic rhythm from my side of the bed and I count the beats, a blur of numbers that slowly crawl back to a regular, even pattern.
I don’t let myself fall asleep until Dad’s already there.
Two
It’s a long bike ride home even though school’s only a few suburbs away. Sweat dribbles down my arms and legs. It’s only mid-July but the humidity’s hit early this year.
Our place is an old, elevated home on stilts. They used to build them this way to create an airflow underneath that helped cool the house before everyone had air conditioning. Up here, there’s two seasons: hot and dry, and hotter and wet. When they’re bracing for winter down south, we’re basking in an endless, blue-skied summer. Then when they get their turn at summer, we swelter. At least, that’s the Western way of interpreting this climate. We live on Larrakia Country here. My friend Tash is Larrakia and she says they recognise seven different seasons.
I trudge up the outside steps to the undercover balcony. We’ve lived in this house since I was born. Dad spent his entire existence before me here. My grandfather built it after Cyclone Tracy destroyed most of the city in 1974. He’d moved up to Darwin from Adelaide to help with the rebuilding efforts. Fell in love with the city. Never left. Until he died. Pneumonia. I was only one.
I unlock the sliding door. Kick my shoes off before stepping inside. Cut through the kitchen and lounge. Retreat to my room at the back of the house. Past the spare bedroom and office Dad never uses that’s still overflowing with remnants of Mum.
I turn the ceiling fan on high. Pick my way through the debris of clothes and books littering my bedroom floor. Dump my school bag on my desk. Pull open the louvres. A hot breeze swarms inside. Catches in the fan. The blades spin in a fury, slicing the warm air. Outside, the jungle of palms guarding our back fence bow back and forth in the wind.
It’s closer to five than four when the familiar grunt of Dad’s ute ricochets through the house.
I hurl my school dress into the mess of sheets, doona and pillows tangled up on my bed. My running shorts and singlet are buried under a pile of clean clothes I didn’t bother putting away after last week’s round of washing. I fish them out, throw them on and slip my phone and earbuds into my pocket.
Back out on the balcony, I sit on the top step and lace up my running shoes.
It’s only a minute before Dad joins me. He’s changed into his workout gear too. ‘All set?’
I jump up. ‘Yep!’
I pull the ute door open, hoist myself inside and we pull out of the driveway. It’s a two-minute drive to East Point Reserve. We could walk there, but that’s not part of our Friday routine.
The ute is older than I am. Dad treats it like a second daughter. For those who don’t know car makes and models, the age only becomes obvious when sitting inside and eyeing the cassette player nestled in the dash. Dad refuses to replace it with a modern sound system because it still actually works. He keeps a shoebox full of old cassettes in the glovebox: Silverchair, Powderfinger, INXS, Cold Chisel, U2. Rotates them week to week. Says he’s preserving the car’s character. I argue I need to preserve my character and listen to music made this century. He says that’s what my phone’s for and I can listen to my music in all the hours I don’t spend in the ute.
‘Sorry I was late today, sweetheart,’ Dad says. It’s Silverchair this afternoon, just audible over the engine.
‘What was it this time?’ I ask.
‘Ectopic.’
‘She okay?’
‘She will be. Good day?’ He turns onto the main road.
‘Good enough. You?’
Dad nods. ‘Good enough.’
He’s staring absently through the windscreen. Driving on autopilot. Probably thinking about his patient. Sometimes I’m sure he remembers everyone he’s ever treated. Or maybe he’s thinking about Mum.
The reserve’s packed. As usual. Families lounge on picnic blankets spread over the grass. Kids tumble around, forcing runners and cyclists to dodge them as they wander unaware across the bike path. Dad parks near the food truck serving fish and chips. We take a minute to set up our music before getting out of the ute.
My song of the week is Olivia Rodrigo’s ‘vampire’. Been playing it on repeat since Monday.
Dad and I set off along the walking trail at a steady jog to warm up. To our left, the sun’s sinking towards the ocean. It’s low tide today and the mangroves are fully exposed. At high tide, the water conceals all but the very tops of the green foliage. I try to keep pace with Dad as he speeds up, but I always drop away before we’ve even run past Pee Wee’s, the fancy restaurant occupying prime real estate in the middle of the nature reserve. The humidity makes the air sticky but the warm breeze cuts through, offering some relief. I shed the week as I run: Monday’s maths test equation mix-up. Summer’s impassioned speech about the inequities in women’s sport in our English presentations on Tuesday. She had the whole class in stitches. Whether or not I forged enough audience eye contact to still get an A on my own presentation. Losing my tennis match on Thursday. Dad’s nightmare...
I barely register the raw coastline as I sprint along the ocean-hugging path. I’ve run this circuit so many times that the familiarity renders it almost invisible. But if I stop to think about it, I can picture it clearly. Endless horizon. Jagged rock border. Sections enclosed by vibrant tropical greenery. Hundreds of different shades forming mini rainforests, juxtaposed against stark cliff faces. Each turn in the path offers a new perspective.
Dad’s waiting for me three-quarters of the way around the four-kilometre loop at the cliffs opposite the remains of the World War II barracks. I’m out of breath but force myself to keep running until I reach him. He’s standing on a ledge overlooking the ocean. I pull to a stop beside him.
I’m struggling to breathe. Dizziness hits. I crouch to the ground before I fall to it.
‘Em?’ Dad immediately drops down beside me.
‘I’m okay.’ I stare at the ground. I can’t think straight.
‘When did you last eat?’
I hear the question. Realise how hungry I am. When did I last eat? Not after school. At lunchtime? No. At lunch I was rehearsing for next week’s drama performance. My chicken sandwich is sitting squashed but still fully intact at the bottom of my school bag.
‘Recess,’ I admit. ‘I forgot. I was busy at lunch.’
‘Okay.’ Dad’s voice is calm. He never gets mad. I almost wish he would. I’m mad at myself. I’m not supposed to forget to eat. ‘Just sit for a bit.’
I’m sorry, I want to say. But I’m not entirely sure what I’m sorry for. Interrupting the run and our routine? Being fifteen a
I don’t know the answer. So I don’t say anything.
Water laps against the cliff below us as the sun inches lower, shifting the sky from blue to orange to pink to purple.
Three
We make it back to the carpark as the last scraps of light disappear from the sky. At Dad’s insistence, I wait in the ute tray while he orders our dinner from the food truck. In the dry season, from May to October, it’s always fish and chips at East Point on Fridays. The crowd’s thinned out. Moonlight glints off the ocean.
My head’s still spinning so I lie down in the tray. Watch the stars emerge in the sky through the power lines.
We accidently fell into our Friday evening East Point routine after Mum died. The workout part had been Dad’s routine for as long as I can remember. For years, Friday evenings were always mine and Mum’s. We’d watch old movies from the 90s and make beaded bracelets and earrings, or she’d teach me whichever new hobby she’d picked up that week. Dad would bring dinner home for us after his workout and we’d all eat together. Then he’d escape into his office and Mum and I back to our activity.
She died on a Saturday. Her funeral was on Wednesday. By Friday, Dad and I were both sick of drowning in grief. And flowers. Condolences. The extended family who filled our house.
I was playing basketball with my cousins. Declan and Evie. Shooting a ball into the ring bolted to the side of the house. I chased the ball when it got away from us and caught Dad sneaking out the front gate.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ he promised.
‘I want to come with you.’
‘Come on then.’
I didn’t notice if he hesitated. Either way, I didn’t care. I threw the ball to my cousins. Followed Dad out the gate. We walked to East Point. When we passed the street workout, Dad started jogging. I tried to keep up.
That first time round, he’d sprint ahead on specific stretches of the path. But never got so far ahead that I couldn’t see him. He always waited for me to catch up. I’m sure the moisture dripping off his face that day wasn’t all sweat.
Dad stopped opposite the World War II barracks that first day too. We sat on the ledge above the cliff edge. Together, we watched the sun dip below the horizon.
Dad pulled me into a hug. He held me tightly and I mimicked his pressure. When he finally let go, he pulled back gently. Looked at me.
‘Let’s do this, then,’ he murmured. And we got up and kept on running.
We learned to persist and exist. The days caught up and overtook us. We didn’t hear their footsteps until they beat us down – and suddenly it’s been three and a half years just the two of us. Friday evenings we’re at the mercy of nature. Time moves slowly, no matter how fast we run. We chase the sinking sun along the curving coastline.
Dad returns with our dinner. Jumps up to join me in the ute tray. I sit up. Lean against the back windscreen. He unwraps the butcher’s paper. Pushes the food towards me. ‘Eat.’
I pick up a squid ring. Take a bite. We don’t talk as we eat. Still, I feel Dad’s eye on me the whole time.
‘Better?’ he asks once we’ve finished.
‘A little.’ Truth is, once the dizziness sets in, it takes time to evaporate even once I’ve refuelled.
‘Good. Drink more water.’
I do, because I want him to think he’s helping.
Four
I’m so exhausted that night I fall asleep on the couch watching Netflix.
It’s dawn when I feel Dad’s fingers caress my hair. ‘Sorry, Em,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve been called in.’
‘Okay,’ I mutter. I don’t bother opening my eyes.
‘I’ll be back three-ish.’ I hear the sliding door open and close. Footsteps down the stairs. The ute’s grunt.
I fade back to sleep. Don’t stir again until heavy footsteps on the staircase shake the whole house. I hear the door squeak as it’s pulled across the runners. I’m immediately awake. Sit up straight.
Then I see a familiar cyclone of brown curls replacing the spare key in its hiding spot in the louvre.
‘Summer!’ I yell. ‘Seriously!’
‘Don’t get up.’ She kicks off her shoes and jumps over the back of the couch. Lies down next to me. Helps herself to some of my blanket. Closes her eyes. My heart rate retreats.
Summer sighs. ‘They were all just so damn excited about something this morning. Woke me at six.’
‘But this is what you always wanted.’
‘Yeah,’ Summer replies. ‘One. One brother or sister.’
Summer’s parents had her at nineteen. Then seven years ago decided they wanted to give kids another shot. Summer got four siblings in the space of five years. She was excited when the oldest, Aurelia, was born, and kind of excited when her first brother, Zack, followed the year after. But by the time Sapphire and then Oliver came along, the novelty had well worn thin.
We both fall back asleep and it’s close to eleven before we start to think about getting up.
‘Pool?’ I suggest.
‘Market!’ Summer cries.
‘It’s gonna be crowded.’
‘We’ll be quick! There and back.’
I sigh. ‘Okay.’
I throw on denim shorts and a singlet. We walk to the Parap market. Can smell the crepe and laksa stalls before we can see them.
We get mango and passionfruit smoothies and then decide to brave the laksa line. It snakes halfway down the carpark. The sun is hot and sweat drips down my nose. It’s tourist season. People everywhere. A busker plays an acoustic set. I watch the flow of bodies and try to guess who’s a tourist and who’s a local. Summer nudges me and nods discreetly to her left. I glance over. She’s spotted a definite. It’s all in the hat. Woven. Broad-brimmed. Screams: scared of the sun.
My phone vibrates. Dad: Eat! I take a selfie with Summer and our smoothies. Send it to him.
The line moves relatively quickly and it’s less than fifteen minutes before we’ve got our laksa. I’m done with being enmeshed in a crowd and anyway, there’s nowhere free to sit, so we carry our breakfast back home and eat on the balcony.
Summer inhales her soup and jumps up as soon as she’s done. ‘Now the pool!’
I’m only halfway through mine. ‘I’ll be there in a sec.’
I daydream as I scoop the last bits of chicken and noodles out of the soup and chew them slowly. Summer and I used to get breakfast laksa together with our parents almost every Saturday morning. I try to recall the last time we did this. Just the two of us, only a few weeks ago. But with our parents too? I think and think, but I can’t pinpoint the exact excursion that marked the end.
When I’m finally done, I tip the remaining orangey broth down the sink, change into my bathers and scrape my hair into a topknot. The streaks of violet Aunt Ivy painted through the dusty brown strands last time she visited haven’t quite grown all the way out. I examine the split ends sticking out of my lopsided updo. I can’t remember the last time I got it cut.
Summer’s swimming laps as best she can. She’s so tall that at full stretch she’s almost as long as the pool. I’m not short by any means, but next to Summer I am.
The humidity’s dropped and the sun’s not quite high enough in the sky to be unbearable yet. I try to take my time slipping into the pool by sitting on the edge, but Summer won’t have it and cuts a lap short to yank me in. The water’s warm. But not too warm, the way it gets in the wet season. The sunshade protects most of the pool from the worst of the sun.
I don’t make any pretences of actually swimming. Just grab a noodle and float around. After a couple more laps Summer gives up too. She leans against the edge.
‘I caught Dad looking at houses in Palmerston last night.’ She blurts out the news as though she didn’t mean to let the words slip.
‘What?’ I exclaim.
‘Yeah. We’re going to look at this house tomorrow.’
‘But you can’t move all the way out there!’
‘I know, right?’ Summer’s voice is flat, but I can’t tell if it’s because she can’t muster the energy to be outraged or genuinely doesn’t care. Surely she cares. Once upon a time, we lived at each other’s houses. An extended home that stretched four streets away. Her parents have been looking at houses for ages, but never that far out. I don’t know what to say.
