Saving Jazz by Kate McCaffrey

It’s about honesty and trust. From what I’ve been told, you fucked up. But what you don’t know is that we all fuck up, to varying degrees, at some stage. I’m here because you need me. And I’ll do what I can to help you through this and get over it. That’s what you need to know.’
    â€˜Why?’ I asked through tears. Why would my aunt, who was only related to me by marriage, offer me the things my parents wouldn’t?
    â€˜Because that’s what family does,’ Aunty Jane said. ‘Relax.’ She pulled her sleeve up and showed me her tattoo —
breathe
. ‘I have it here to remind me, all the time, to slow down and just breathe. Okay?’
    I nodded and inhaled deeply. ‘Okay. This is what happened …’ And I was still talking when we pulled up in front of her house right on the edge of Perth city.
    The house was an old federation style — dark-red brick, white window trims and worn weathered floorboards. Aunty Jane opened the front door to a sight that was worlds away from my mother’s pristine place. ‘This is why we have Christmas atyour folks’,’ she said, kicking a kid’s toy out the way. ‘I don’t think Meghan can handle the clutter.’
    Clutter was polite. The house looked like a tornado of eight-year-olds had swept through and dropped every toy currently in stock at Kmart on the floor. In the kitchen the dishes were piled high. ‘Dishwasher broke down and today is …’ Aunty Jane looked at the roster on the fridge, ‘Louie’s turn. Hang on a sec. Louie?’ she bellowed down another hallway. Within minutes my twelve-year-old cousin Louie — one half of the monozygotes, the other being Charlie — emerged scratching his belly.
    â€˜Wassup mum?’ he asked. Despite the fact it was after lunch, it was clear Louie had just woken up. He saw me. ‘Hey Jazzy, wassup?’
    â€˜Hey Louie,’ I gave him a wooden hug. Never having had a sibling, I found myself supremely awkward.
    â€˜Dishes,’ Aunty Jane said, nodding to the kitchen sink. Louie nodded and loped over. ‘Jazz is coming to stay with us for a while.’
    â€˜Cool,’ Louie said and started washing up.
    â€˜Come on, I’ll show you your room.’ Aunty Jane led me through the house and out into the backgarden. It was a big block — not by Greenhead standards, but in the inner city it was the kind of place people bought, bulldozed and subdivided into three or more townhouses. ‘I won’t hear of demolition talk,’ Aunty Jane told me, ‘it’s a crime to knock down these old places. A part of our Australian history. And that tree,’ she pointed to an enormous gum tree, ‘is about two hundred years old. It’s a piece of living history.’ I’d been to Aunty Jane’s a handful of times in my life. It was true that family gatherings were always at my parents’ place, no doubt because Mum’s nerves couldn’t handle the ramshackle approach to domestic duties at Aunty Jane’s. But I never remembered the little timber cabin that sat nestled in the back corner of the garden.
    â€˜Is that new?’ I asked pointing to it. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen. It was bright blue with white wooden French windows and doors, a verandah and a wide timber deck.
    â€˜Yes,’ Aunty Jane nodded and produced a key. ‘It was finished last week. Fortuitous, really, because I wouldn’t want you having to share with Bernie — or heaven forbid Bernie and Jake having to share.’
    Bernie and Jake were the two younger twins, nine years old. Aunty Jane said she had a knack for producing duplicate children. ‘A backup plan, if the first one goes rotten,’ she said with a laugh. A house full of boys. I wondered what it would be like. The inside of the cabin had polished timber floors, a double bed, a wardrobe, dresser and an air