Chapter 1: The Decision
It’s Easter Sunday, 2021. We don’t know it yet, but we are on a brief break between lockdowns. The kids are wandering through a maze somewhere near Mansfield, in country Victoria. We are both hoping they’ll get lost for long enough that we can have a much-needed conversation about our future.
“What are you thinking of doing with your long service leave?” I ask T as we sit on the soft grass outside the Maze’s exit.
“There’s not much point thinking about it when we can’t go anywhere,” he responds tersely. Covid Lockdowns mean we can’t even leave Victoria. But I’m a planner by nature and I like having something to look forward to, especially after being trapped in the house with my kids for most of a year.
Later in the year, T will become eligible for Long Service Leave. Long Service Leave is a quirk of Australian employment. If you are fortunate enough to have permanent, consistent employment with the same employer for ten years, you can take three months of paid leave. You can also opt to receive the cash and keep working.
In a country of casual and contract work, Long Service Leave is like seeing a koala awake; a rare and unusual event.
“Well, do you think you’ll take the leave, or the cash?” I persist. He doesn’t reply. I push on, “I think you should take the leave. We don’t really need the money and you need a break. I’m pretty flexible with my work and it’s not like this opportunity will present itself again,” I say in a rush. I hear one of our kids yelling. They are close. Stupid maze is too easy.
“Hmph,” he says and that’s where the conversation ends. But it’s enough. I planted the seed.
Months of intermittent Lockdowns pass. We get Covid at Christmas but its mild and we recover quickly. Everyone is vaccinated, the borders open, and we visit family interstate. But it takes months to get used to the idea that life is “back to normal” because we don’t know what the means now.
The Long Service Leave question comes up again. T tells me he has decided to take the leave, not the cash. I tell him 2023 is his 50th birthday year so we should plan a trip. He’s always wanted to watch the Tour de France live, maybe we could do that? I like the idea of sitting on a French hillside in the sunshine, drinking wine and eating cheese while people who are not me ride their bikes around.
But T vetoes the idea. “Too expensive,” he says. “I think we should drive across Australia,” he says.
I can’t hide my shock. “Why on earth would we want to do that?” I reply.
“Because I think the kids would enjoy it and I’d like to see it,” he replies. I stare at him. Does he even know our children? We’ve just spent two years trapped together in our house. It’s a miracle I didn’t emancipate myself from them or put them up for adoption.
“Haven’t we spent enough time together?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. Surely the lockdowns of the past two years mean I have banked at least another year or so. “They’re finally gaining some independence! And you want to trap us all in a tin can together for weeks?” I can feel my voice getting shrill.
T looks at me with his steady gaze. “That’s what I want to do,” he says simply. “You said I could decide,” he reminds me. He’s right. I had said that. God he’s so frustratingly rational. I conveniently forget that’s one of the reasons I chose him.
“It’s a really really long way,” I say. Unlike him, I crossed Australia a few times as a child. I don’t remember enjoying it at all. Memories of being crushed in the back of my parents’ hot Corolla and staring out at the endless barren landscape for hours come rushing back. My sister and I pass the time arguing over who gets to hold the one remaining battery-operated fan to their face. There’s no music in the car to help pass the time. I can’t read without feeling sick. My sister still won’t give me the bloody fan. I start to feel my chest tighten.
“The car won’t make it that far,” I tell him. I know this is not true. Our trusty Mazda 3 will run forever. That’s what the mechanics tell me every time it gets serviced.
“Yes, I need to think about that,” T replies. He is unmoved. I’ve lived with him for 18 years, I know when I’m not going to win. I let out a deep sigh.
“You’re telling the kids there’s no WIFI,” I say.
