They were very tactile, all of them. We never touched in college, but at home, someone was always touching someone: Daniel’s hand on Abby’s head as he passed behind her chair, Rafe’s arm on Justin’s shoulder as they examined some spare-room discovery together, Abby lying back in the swing seat across my lap and Justin’s, Rafe’s ankles crossed over mine as we read by the fire. Frank made predictable snide noises about homosexuality and orgies, but I was on full alert for any kind of sexual vibe-the baby-and that wasn’t what I was picking up. It was stranger and more powerful than that: they didn’t have boundaries, not among themselves, not the way most people do. Your average house share involves a pretty high level of territorial dispute-tense negotiations over the remote control, house meetings about whether bread counts as personal or shared, Rob’s flatmate used to have a three-day snit fit if he used her butter. But these people: as far as I could tell, everything, except thank God underwear, belonged to all of them. The guys pulled clothes out of the airing cupboard at random, anything that would fit; I never did figure out which tops were officially Lexie’s and which ones were Abby’s. They ripped sheets of paper out of each other’s notepads, ate toast off the nearest plate, took sips out of whatever glass was handy.
I didn’t mention this to Frank-he would only have switched from orgy comments to dark warnings about communism, and I liked the blurred boundaries. They reminded me of something warm and solid that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. There was a big green wax jacket, hanging in the coat closet left over from Uncle Simon, that belonged to anyone who was going out in the rain; the first time I put it on for my walk it gave me a strange, intoxicating little thrill, like holding hands with a boy for the very first time.
It was Thursday when I managed to put my finger on the feeling. The days were starting to lengthen towards summer and it was a clear, warm, graceful evening; after dinner we took a bottle of wine and a plate of sponge cake out onto the lawn. I had made a daisy chain and was trying to fasten it around my wrist. By this time I had given up on the not-drinking thing-it felt out of character, it made the others think about the stabbing and tense up, and besides, whatever antibiotics and booze do together could get me out of there when I needed it-so I was mildly, happily tipsy.
“More cake,” Rafe demanded, nudging me with his foot.
“Get it yourself. I’m busy.” I had given up on fastening the daisy chain one-handed and was putting it on Justin instead.
“You’re a lazy object, do you know that?”
“Look who’s talking.” I pulled one of my ankles round the back of my head-all the gymnastics as a kid, I’m flexible-and stuck my tongue out at Rafe from under my knee. “I’m active and healthy, look.”
Rafe raised one eyebrow lazily. “I’m aroused.”
“You’re a pervert,” I told him, with as much dignity as I could from that position.
“Knock it off,” Abby said. “You’ll burst your stitches, and we’re all too drunk to drive you to the emergency room.”
I’d forgotten all about my imaginary stitches. For a second I considered getting wound up about this, but I decided against it. The long evening sunshine and being barefoot and the tickle of grass, and presumably the booze, were making me light-headed and silly. It had been a long time since I’d felt like this, and I liked it. I maneuvered my head round to peer sideways at Abby. “They’re fine. They’re not even sore any more.”
“That’s because up until now you haven’t been tying yourself in knots,” Daniel said. “Behave.”
Normally I’m allergic to bossy, but somehow this felt nice; cozy. “Yes, Dad,” I said, and disentangled my leg, which sent me off balance so I fell over onto Justin.
“Ow, get off me,” he said, flapping a hand at me without much energy. “God, how much do you weigh?” I wriggled myself comfortable and stayed put with my head in his lap, squinting up into the sunset. He tickled my nose with a grass stem.
I looked relaxed, at least I hoped I did, but my mind was going fast. I had just realized-Yes, Dad-what this whole setup reminded me of: a family. Maybe not a real-life family, although what would I know, but a family out of a million children’s-book series and old TV shows, the comforting kind that go on for years without anyone getting any older, to the point where you start to wonder about the actors’ hormone levels. These five had it all: Daniel the distant but affectionate father, Justin and Abby taking turns to be the protective Mammy and the lofty eldest, Rafe the moody teenage middle kid; and Lexie, the late arrival, the capricious little sister to be alternately spoiled and teased.
