Husband Replacement Therapy

by Lette, Kathy

  33

  The week between Christmas and New Year’s day was hot – the kind of hot that makes a woman think that the only reason bras were invented was for the unparalleled joy that comes from taking one off.

  The days that followed Mum’s death were a time of intense activity – but it was like jogging through treacle. The only other period in my life when I could remember feeling time so suspended, when I’d lived so intensely in the present, was after birthing my babies. Hours seemed to rush by and minutes dragged, with everything telescoped into the here and now.

  Thanks to Brody’s intervention, the death certificate had been issued swiftly. It stated that Ruth had died of natural causes, exacerbated by her weakened condition from pancreatic cancer and a lifetime of heavy drinking. My sisters and I met with the priest, designed the order of service, and tried not to kill each other. The way we were going, it could be a four-for-one funeral.

  We couldn’t even pick out clothes for our mother to wear for her cremation without falling out. Amber had selected the kind of age-appropriate frock that had been fashionable around the time of the Boer War.

  ‘Mum’d hate that to be the last thing she ever wore!’ Emerald snapped, tossing it back into the wardrobe. ‘We should bury her in her leopard-print tankini.’

  ‘What about pearls and a sequined sarong?’ I suggested, attempting to placate. ‘And what about underwear? Do we need to choose underpants? Surely we can’t let Mum go commando?’

  ‘I suppose you’ll be taking Emerald’s side in all matters from now on, won’t you, Ruby?’ Amber sulked. She flounced off to answer the doorbell, hips swishing, then reappeared in our mother’s bedroom carrying another huge bunch of flowers. ‘From Mum’s lawn bowls club. Aren’t they magnificent!’

  ‘Why do people send flowers? Who wants dying things at a time like this,’ Emerald griped. ‘There’s an organisation who build dunnies for villages in the developing world. If mourners want to make a gesture, they should just give money to this toilet twinning scheme. I’ve twinned with a latrine in’—she took out her phone to read the details—‘Htawadum, Kachin State, Myanmar.’

  ‘Well, that settles it. There’s no way I’m letting you handle Mum’s estate.’ Amber huffed. ‘If we let you do the finances our whole inheritance will be funnelled into flushing away poverty. Literally.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Emerald flared. ‘Can’t you ever stop thinking of yourself for one nanosecond? You’re the one who’s been running around putting little stickers on the back of the paintings and furniture you want to keep, and drawing up a spreadsheet of the valued possessions you want first dibs on.’

  ‘Flowers and latrines are both fine,’ I mollified. Attempting to cut through my siblings’ mutual resentment was like trying to saw raggedly through a frozen loaf of bread with a butter knife. We were right back to where we’d been before the cruise.

  Before we left for the funeral home, Amber threw together an Ottolenghi salad and summoned us to the kitchen table.

  ‘Pass me the hummus, will you?’ Emerald asked, falling into a chair and pointing to the tub on the counter in front of Amber.

  Amber ignored her. The kettle clicked off and she slowly warmed the teapot.

  ‘For god’s sake, it’s not as though I’m asking for your stash of Colombian cocaine, Amber. Just pass me the bloody tub.’

  I leapt up out of my chair as if electrocuted, to fetch the tub in order to short-circuit the clash.

  ‘Can I get you anything, Ruby?’ Amber then asked with the most courteous of smiles.

  ‘Yeah, you could take that knife out of her back,’ Emerald said through a half-chomped mouthful of salad.

  ‘I could say the same to you. Liberated feminist, or amoral slut? Defend your answer,’ Amber retaliated.

  We drove our mother’s new Merc to the funeral parlour. While my sisters fought over which one of them should take the wheel, I diplomatically slipped into the driver’s seat. The bickering and niggling continued in the car – especially over who should give the eulogy at the funeral.

  ‘As the eldest, it should be you, Emerald,’ Amber decreed.

  ‘Jesus Christ, no! I’m far too atheist. I find it hard to square the idea of a loving god with the existence of ichneumon wasps, which lay eggs in caterpillars that then hatch and consume the poor thing from within. Not to forget famine, war and childhood cancer, oh, and sisters who screw their brothers-in-law.’

  ‘Oh, god, have you ever thought of not giving your opinion, Emerald? I really think it’s an option we should explore,’ Amber said, scathingly.

  ‘Let’s explore you speaking at the funeral, then. You never seem to want to shut up at other times.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Look at me. I haven’t done my roots, my nails are chipped, and I’m living out of my car boot, where my only change of clothes is a beige tent dress and Birkenstocks.’

  ‘Well, that’s true,’ the perfectly groomed Emerald said, giving her sister a full body scan. ‘I’ve seen better dressed salads.’

  By the time I’d reverse-parked into a tiny spot right outside the funeral home, I was so fraught and overwrought from my sisters’ arguing that I dropped the coathanger holding the clothes Ruth was to be cremated in. I scrambled to snatch up the bra, shoes and sequined Carla Zampatti frock from the dirty pavement. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum . . . Oh, god, girls. I’m talking to a bra,’ I said, then hugged the dress dangling on its hanger as if Mum were inside it. It was the first time I’d hugged my mother for as long as I could remember.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ I said, between sobs, ‘I’m sorry you were so unhappy. I’m sorry I threw the pavlova into your face. And I’m sorry you got sick. How did it happen? God has clearly been on sabbatical for the past few years and left a hopelessly unqualified intern in charge.’

  ‘Is that what you’re going to say? At the funeral?’ Amber asked.

  ‘What? No. Why should I have to speak? I’m the youngest.’

  ‘Because you’re our wordsmith, Ruby,’ Emerald stated. Amber nodded her agreement.

  It was the first time they’d ever called me that. It made me feel as though I’d won the Booker Prize.

  A few days later, in church, people who barely knew Ruth Ryan were sobbing and blowing their noses. The church swelled like a throat with the sound of hymns and organ. Our mother’s church book group, about ten imperious women, sat in the first few pews on the right. When some of their ex-husbands appeared with new, shiny young brides on their arms, the bookish dames glowered and closed ranks, whispering behind liver-spotted hands how dare they turn up again after all these years.

  I sat in the front left pew, flanked by my warring siblings, contemplating the notes I’d written about what to say at this coming out party for a ghost. Our mother had enough chips on her shoulder to open a casino. She left a substantial amount of money in her will to the Catholic Church so that prayers would be said for her, but no amount of prayers could get our mother out of purgatory. It’s more likely she’s already terrorising the inmates of hell. Oh, and we burnt the will because where there’s a will, there’s a way! was what I wanted to say. But when I rose to my feet, I said, instead –

  ‘We all know that none of us gets out of this place alive, but losing a parent is always so difficult to take. I know that some of you have a rather peculiar conviction that it’s only a temporary parting – don’t tell Richard Dawkins! But I’m not religious, so have nothing comforting to say about where our mother has gone. Our father was a great traveller and often said that he thought death must be a rather fine adventure, as he could think of no one who’d ever returned from the trip. So, bon voyage, Mum. My sisters and I have agreed that we will make a handsome donation to this church our mother so loved – just as soon as women are allowed to be ordained as priests.’

  I glanced at my sisters, who gave me the thumbs up.

  ‘My mother was an intelligent, contradictory and complex woman, but she did give me the greatest gift possib
le – two warm, witty, wise and wonderful sisters. I’m going to call them up now. Emerald, Amber?’

  My surprised siblings glowered up at me in surprise. Emerald shook her head and Amber tch-tched but, reluctantly, they joined me at the front of the church and faced the congregation. I extracted three lipsticks from my pocket and shared them around.

  ‘In honour of you, Mum, the woman who taught us that everything is made better by a bit of lippy.’ I painted a red slash of colour across my lips and my sisters followed suit, laughing through their tears. ‘And because nobody wore lippy as well as you did, Ruth.’

  And then I peered over my reading glasses, caught my sisters’ eyes and pretended to adjust my specs up the bridge of my nose, with a covert middle finger.

  The next day we took delivery of the cremation urn. We placed Ruth on the kitchen counter and contemplated our next move.

  ‘So, where shall we sprinkle her ashes?’ Amber spoke first.

  ‘What about the designer shopping outlet? It was her favourite haunt,’ Emerald suggested.

  ‘The club and the pub were her favourite haunts,’ Amber corrected.

  ‘What about Kurnell beach?’ I said. ‘“Birthplace of a nation” . . . or, the site of Invasion Day, although it made her furious to hear us call it that. But she did love it there.’

  ‘It’s a good idea, but it’s illegal to scatter human remains in public places without council permission,’ Emerald countered.

  ‘That’s okay. We’ll just fill our pockets with Mum’s ashes, cut holes in the seams, then walk along, dropping her in instalments like the tunnel diggers at Colditz.’ I demonstrated, sauntering around the kitchen, surreptitiously shaking my pockets.

  ‘I think we should sprinkle her under the casuarinas. Wind blowing through casuarinas sounds like moaning, and you how she loved to moan,’ Emerald said, and we all snickered. ‘And then we’ll know where to go when we miss her.’

  ‘Oh, god, I laughed so hard I just had a little LBL – light bladder leakage,’ Amber uncharacteristically confided.

  We laughed even more when we arrived at the beach and realised we’d forgotten our mother. She was sitting back at home on the kitchen counter. We drove back for her urn at top speed and this time strapped her into the front seat, just like old times, apart from the lack of commentary on our appalling driving/bad parenting/poor grooming/lack of lippy.

  We parked among the flowering gums, then walked towards the water in the bright heat of the summer afternoon, serenaded by cicadas.

  What upset me far more than the act of scattering the ashes was how they were packed. Shredded newspaper padded out the urn. I kept catching glimpses of headlines from my own local paper – the usual trite stories often penned by my own hand: ‘Seagull Steals Dentures’; ‘Drunk Falls on Face’; ‘Man’s Penis-Enlarging Vacuum Pump Stolen – Wedding Dreams Shattered’.

  The pointlessness of my life and the inevitable approach of death was laid bare, right there, in black and white. No wonder I suddenly felt as though I’d been buried alive.

  Moments later, standing at the water’s edge, watching our matriarch bobbing on the tide, we girls clung to each other like barnacles on the hull of HMAS Family, storm-tossed in big, unchartered seas. Through grief we had coalesced into one familial organism, made mute by memories.

  ‘All I can think about is Dad’s death,’ I said, finally. ‘I can remember the sound of our hearts splitting open. Can’t you? We loved him so much. And he loved our mother, even if he wasn’t all that great at showing it. So, there must have been some good in her. Mum can’t just be a Disney villain. Something made her become the wicked witch.’

  ‘Perhaps it was giving up work?’ Amber conjectured. ‘Dad made her do that. Maybe that’s what gave her a touch of the Hedda Gablers? She was bright enough to have been running a company, but had no outlet for all that clever, ruthless scheming.’

  ‘Plus, they were just so spectacularly matrimonially mismatched,’ Emerald added. ‘Yes, Dad was irresistibly charming, but he was also a womaniser.’

  ‘God, yes! He offered matrimony to so many women, both before and after he was married, that Mum called him Lord of the Rings, do you remember?’ I said, and we found ourselves laughing again. ‘Who knows what Mum was like before he hurt her. We always thought he had affairs because she was so awful, but maybe she was so awful because he had affairs. I mean, look at us, all bitter and twisted over a bout of infidelity. Mum was right about one thing – now we do know how she felt. Her bitterness morphed into sarcasm then carcinoma. We mustn’t go that same way. We can start by forgiving her,’ I said, firmly. ‘And each other.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re the little sister?’ Emerald asked, rubbing the top of my head affectionately.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry about Harry,’ Amber gushed. ‘I was confused. A mess. A menopausal hot mess of hormones and despair and denial about my sexuality. I felt starved of intimacy to the point of insanity. Does that make sense?’

  ‘I’m sorry about snogging Scott, too,’ Emerald said to Amber. ‘I wish I didn’t need sex so much. But I do! Since the cruise, I’ve been so famished for bodily contact I’ve been tempted to give myself a strip search. If it weren’t for a bra fitting last week at DJs, I wouldn’t have had any sex life at all since we got back. If only I was an aphid, a wasp or a termite. They’ve dispensed with copulation altogether. Did you know that? They produce eggs that develop without any contact with sperm. You, on the other hand, Amber, are like a slug. They’re bisexual, you know. Some species start off as one sex and turn into the other as they develop. It’s just their nature. And one must follow one’s nature.’

  ‘What? Nasty and slimy?’ Amber asked quietly.

  ‘No,’ Emerald corrected, ‘adaptable and unique.’

  I detected the ghost of a smile on Emerald’s lips, which, much to my delight, Amber mirrored.

  ‘I know I joked about it, but why don’t you simply swap husbands?’ I said. ‘Emerald can live with Scott, whose sex drive’s stuck in top gear. And you, Amber, can live in asexual bliss with Alessandro, the vagina decliner. That’s perfect husband replacement therapy. We’ll still be one big happy family. Our kids are so wrapped up in themselves, they won’t even notice the change.’

  ‘Yes, it’s just recycling, really,’ Emerald said sensibly. ‘One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure.’

  ‘I don’t know what I want, exactly, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a man,’ Amber said, softly.

  ‘That’s good, because I’m not ready to throw my husband in the garbage just yet. That’s why I’ve started secretly slapping testosterone gel onto Sandro’s skin when he’s asleep. Men need hormone replacement therapy too, you know, but are too proud to admit it. I’m hoping it’s going to be the fuel he needs to reboot his man missile before bats fly out of my forsaken fanny.’

  Amber laughed, before asking gently, ‘What about you, Ruby? What’s your husband replacement therapy?’

  ‘I’m upgrading, as it turns out. Yep, I’m getting a new and improved, renovated version of my old hubby. With a baby on the way, Harry wants to renew our wedding vows.’

  ‘Really?’ both sisters asked, in tandem.

  ‘People live for so long now that the time from honeymoon to tomb can be seventy, eighty years,’ I elaborated. ‘Harry says that marriage should be a temporary arrangement, similar to a mobile phone contract. You should renegotiate, say, every five years. And that’s what he’s doing – renegotiating.’

  ‘Just make sure you get a lot of perks in the package, starting with daily breakfast in bed,’ Emerald suggested.

  ‘And a foot rub each night,’ Amber added.

  My sisters wiggled their eyebrows mutely at each other for a moment before Emerald asked, with astonishment, ‘So, you really are going to keep the baby?’

  I shrugged. ‘Harry wants it too badly.’

  ‘But what about you?’ Amber said, softly.

  ‘Well, I put myself first once before, and look
where that got me. Anyway, Harry says my affair with Brody was a real wake-up call. He admits he’s been a selfish bastard and is begging forgiveness. He said that he was total prick to lie to me, and that he knows that if he hadn’t cheated then I wouldn’t have either.’

  ‘I can never say sorry enough.’ Amber chewed her lip, regret devouring her.

  ‘But Harry did point out that he’s not the only one whose pants have been on fire. And not just in our family, either. Fake news and conspiracy theorists, anti-vaxxers, Cambridge Analytica, climate change deniers, anti-abortion activists on social media, Putin, Brexiteers, they all just lie, lie, lie . . . He said that Trump has told about fifteen thousand lies while in office.’

  ‘It’s true. How many of our friends’ hashtag “livingmybestlife” Instagram posts are putting a positive, filtered spin on misery and loneliness? All of mine, in the past, for sure,’ Amber acknowledged.

  ‘But he also promised that when we renew our vows, he would swear never to lie to me again.’

  ‘Ah, but was he lying at the time?’ Emerald asked, holding up crossed fingers.

  Amber thumped our big sister in the arm, but it was good-natured. ‘Well, we’ll back you, Ruby, whatever you decide. Won’t we, Emerald?’

  ‘Yes. But I am not wearing any hideous, big, blancmange bridesmaid outfits ever again, is that clear?’

  I shuddered. ‘No bridezilla, I promise!’

  The wind picked up. The waves were now a creamy froth, whipped in places into peaks more than two metres tall. The sun was slightly less direct now, already starting to slip behind a faraway scribble of trees.

  ‘Bon voyage, Mum,’ I said, and then we turned back towards the car.

  ‘Are you limping?’ Amber asked Emerald in the casuarina grove.

  ‘God, it’s such a bore,’ Emerald admitted. ‘I’ve got arthritis behind my knee apparently. Arthritis! Jesus. That’s what old people get. I’ll probably have to have an op.’