A Pure Moment

Mike Zhou, Year 12

Charlotte’s holding a gold chain with some sort of crystal swinging at the bottom. She says it’s a special pendant from Mum that has the mystical ability to predict pregnancies, however, in my eyes, it’s maybe – no, certainly – a glorified rock. It’s dull. Inanimate. End of story. I can’t believe that even when there’ve been monumental medical breakthroughs by specialists who have devoted their lives to research, Charlotte decides that she’s pregnant because of a ‘holy rock’. By the looks of things, she’s showing symptoms that she’s turning into a cavewoman. My progressive sister is regressing all the way to the Cretaceous Period. Is it too late to save her?

After I explain to her why the rock is a gimmick and a pregnancy kit isn’t, I ask the most important question. Who’s the father? I grip my wine glass, like I’m waiting for my mid-semester grades for Psychology. It feels like waiting for the result that would determine whether I would become a run-of-the-mill psychologist or a wellestablished, successful psychoanalyst. I take a small sip and wait attentively, staring at her like an eagle eyeing its prey. Charlotte nods remorsefully.

Craig. Bloody Craig. How pathetic? Seriously. Hello, Charlotte! What’s going on? This is worse than any gossip story ever published in The Women’s Weekly. She describes herself as having a body of a living goddess but she’s somehow stuck with a guy like him. Really? Craig? A bass-playing health-food guru and new age hippy. The fact that he can even get his stick hard surprises me. If that Neanderthal passes the loser genes that turn my niece or nephew into a groovy, free spirit baby, God help me. It takes me a few minutes to process her response, but I still don’t believe she’s pregnant. Her pregnancy is only an assumption. There’s no evidence, no factual proof. I turn on the television, hoping she will be hypnotised by evil corporate overlords, and leave to buy a pregnancy kit.

She’s progressive for sure. Name the newest and most trending diet, and I bet you she’s on it! I mean she works at a store that only sells organic, gluten free, low-fat, no-sugar, low-salt, dairy-free lactose-removed products. Moreover, they only hire employees who live by a non-sexist, non

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ageist, anti-conservative, socialist-ordained, gender-fluid lifestyle. What do you expect? In fact, I think Charlotte and her health-food cult ought to have a holiday in the seventh circle of hell. They deserve to fry in a pool of industrial vegetable oil – along with chips, spring rolls, onion rings, Chiko Rolls, and – if I’m in a reckless mood – Mars Bars. What I don’t understand is how you could be so forwardthinking that you forget about yourself? I guess the more you look forward, the less you see in the present.

As I walk on the unpaved footpath, I feel the movement of gravel through my shoes. Above me, the stars shine in the night sky, desperate to become the next sun. I look above and stare at one, and I feel a small surge of energy pulsate through my eyes and wander into my soul. It rushes through my body and forces me to consider, how does she feel? I was the one she contacted. I was the one she trusted. I was the one. Reality slaps me in the face. She’s about to have a baby, and she lives in a share house, has two casual jobs, no qualifications or money and most importantly has an eternally broke, desperate, nineteen-forever, bassplaying boyfriend. I sympathise with her, I really do. I’m a young, independent, modern professional, who’s ambitious and has money for society’s luxuries and respect. Maybe she’s right about everything, my cynicism prevents me from being happy.

With the pregnancy kit under my arms, I run down Chapel Street, take a right on Toorak Road and turn into my studio apartment, in front of the Route 58 tram stop. The next challenge, the stairs. By the time I reach the top, I’m moaning and groaning, and my clothes are drenched in sweat. I swear it’s the fastest I’ve ever run in my life. A sub 30-minute mile for sure! I open the door, throw Charlotte the kit and demand she follows the directions. I stand outside the bathroom. She takes forever; it feels like I’m waiting an eternity. Peeing on a stick, how hard can it be? She comes out and I snatch the blue-lined stick from her. She’s pregnant.

‘I want to see Mum!’ screams Charlotte all of a sudden.

‘See Mum? Really? They’re at Uncle Frank’s. It’ll need to wait,’ I say incredulously.

‘No! I need to see her now!’

My heart stops. I feel a tremor of unease.

‘Oh my God… Dad,’ I murmur in shock.

Are you serious? This is next level insanity. Mum and Dad instilled core values in us, such as: love, respect, honesty and sincerity, however, in a situation like this, I was begging her to think about it for a while. Surely, she recalls the time Dad chased her boyfriend with a five iron for not using a condom. I mean what’s he going to do when he finds out? I urged her to keep it between us. A secret. Sister to sister. Her persistence, however, was like the Dog on the Tuckerbox, she wouldn’t budge or take no as an answer. It was her decision, not mine, and I respected it. Charlotte and her health-food brigade annoy the bejesus out of me. There’s no doubt about that. Why do I put up with her? Family. Love. Respect. Upholding the Westaway name. That means something for sure. We make mistakes and have our differences, and at times we want to kill each other – but we get things right. We get our priorities straight. Through all life’s splendour, all its problems, highs and lows. It’s time to drop the cynicism, drop the criticism – now is the time to stand up and be counted as a Westaway, as a sister and a friend. We’re family. We’re twins. That’s all that counts. A pure moment – I hope I can be pure.

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