jml297

Lachie wasn’t typical from the moment he appeared, red-faced but not screaming, in the arms of the midwife. The doctor had been called to another emergency, returning in time to give the newborn a slap and a shake to liven him up. That seemed to set the tone for Lachie’s life, with external motivation required to generate any kind of response.

As the middle child in his family, Lachie seemed to drift through life. He lacked his older sister’s drive and ambition; she didn’t just push boundaries — she broke them. His younger brother’s sporting prowess was evident from the groaning shelf of trophies that had pride of place in the living room. Lachie had been resentful at first, but lost interest in that too, deciding that someone had to be mediocre.

He had become used to the family chiacking him for being unmotivated, and somewhere along the way, had embraced it. Lachie reasoned that everyone had their place. So what if his was on the sidelines, looking on as life happened around him?

Being the butt of family jokes was one thing, but an unexpected visit from one of his Mum’s sisters, Aunty Em, seemed to shake him up a bit. ‘You can’t spend all day doing nothing, Lachie. You’ll get all the sleep you need when you’re dead.’

Lachie shrugged, hoping that his proven track record of indifference to such unwanted advice would extend to the current situation. But Aunty Em was persistent. She’d raised four boys, now grown-up cousins, who were out in the world “getting stuff done”. And she seemed determined to transform Lachie into a go-getter.

Lachie feigned the flu, barricading himself in his bedroom with the blinds drawn and the doona over his head. Aunty Em had no qualms about entering the cess pit, as the family called his room. Within a minute, the blinds were up, the window open, clothes were being tossed into a laundry hamper at the door, and she was prodding him with a feather duster.

‘Up you get, Lachie. No wonder you’re not well, living in filth. You’ve got another thing coming if you think I’m cleaning up after you. I’ll help, but you need to move your stumps. Come on.’

Lachie hunkered down, pulling the doona tighter still. But within seconds the doona too was gone and there was Aunty Em, looking down at him with a malicious smile, feather duster poised as if to smack him on the nose. The urge for self-preservation was strong, and within seconds he was up, out of the room and in the shower, where surely she wouldn’t follow.

‘Seen it all before, Lachie.’

He dropped the soap and was too scared to pick it up. ‘Aunty Em! You can’t be here!’

‘Oh, but I am, my boy. Give yourself a good scrub now. But no malingering. We’ve got a big day planned.’

Tempting as it was to stay in the shower until the water ran out, he had no doubt that she’d come back for him. Lachie finished washing, dressing quickly in case she reappeared. The rest of the day was a blur of frustration and fatigue. Every task felt pointless—wipe, scrub, sort, repeat. Yet, as the hours passed, a strange sense of accomplishment crept in. The room began to look less like a battleground and more like a place he could inhabit. He caught glimpses of himself in the mirror, hair askew, cheeks flushed, and wondered if he was capable of more than he’d allowed himself to believe.

By the time his parents returned home, the house gleamed, and he was stirring a pot of bolognaise sauce that he’d made from scratch. Lachie was exhausted but oddly proud. He watched his mother’s astonished expression, and for a fleeting moment, felt seen—not as the family slacker, but as someone who could contribute.

It was then he found out that Aunty Em was staying for a month, and that he was going to be her “special project”. Lachie swooned. He’d barely survived the day. A month of it would kill him. As kids, they’d held their breath to see who could last the longest. Could he feign death, perhaps?

He looked up to see both parents smirking at him. He was doomed. There would be no escape.

Then a sharp ‘ding-ding’ of an incoming text message. Aunty Em extracted her phone from her apron pocket, frowning at the screen. ‘Looks like the first grandchild is on its way. I’ll head off in the morning.’

Lachie, who had been washing up, sidled over to the nearest chair, collapsing in relief. He looked around, seeing the sunlight dance across the gleaming bench tops, the house changed by Aunty Em’s whirlwind and his own unexpected efforts. For a moment, he felt the weight of possibility. Would he miss her pushy presence, or just fall back into his old, coma-like existence?

Slowly, Lachie got to his feet and shuffled to the stove. He stirred the sauce, tasted it, and paused. It was good — better than he’d expected. Maybe, just maybe, he could do more than he’d ever allowed himself to believe. The thought lingered, fragile but real, as the aroma of garlic and herbs filled the air. For now, he savoured the quiet, knowing that change might be possible, even if only in small steps.

This was written to a prompt for a writing group. You can find an interesting article about the history and various uses of this phrase here.

Photo: kitchen timer with a cluster of tomatoes