by Nick Earls
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ I say, walking over to him, but he just keeps watching the TV. ‘Tell me you’re not having that for breakfast?’ I kick the pizza carton with my foot.
Mark blinks up at me and says, ‘Whatever, Trevor.’
I roll my eyes and reach down to take the picked-at piece of pizza away from him. ‘You can have this for lunch. You shouldn’t be eating this shit for breakfast.’ I grab the quarter-full bottle of Coke while I’m at it. ‘How much of this stuff have you had?’ I give it a shake. ‘And yuck – it’s flat. You should be having cereal. Mum’d never let you have this stuff. She’d freak.’
‘But there’s no milk left,’ he whines.
‘Well then, I’ll make you some to-oast,’ I say, pretending to whine back at him.
He scowls.
‘Peanut-butter toast.’ I say, as though it’s some sort of peace offering.
‘Nutella?’ He looks up at me hopefully.
‘Of course, what was I thinking? You would naturally be wanting “dessert toast”. Fine. Nutella. But just this once.’ I tickle him in the ribs with my toes and then walk towards the kitchen. I get a shock when I see the digital numbers on the microwave clock. ‘Hang on, shouldn’t you be at soccer? God, it starts in like twenty minutes. Go get your uniform on, Mark, and you can eat the toast in the car. Where’s Dad? DAD!’
‘I’m not going to soccer today,’ he says, and I pop my head around the kitchen door. ‘I just want to stay here with you.’
I walk back into the lounge and kneel down on the carpet, resting my hands on the red corduroy of the beanbag. ‘Marky, I’ve gotta go to work today and I think you should go to soccer practice.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t want to,’ he says, in his stern five-year-old voice, staring at the screen ahead.
‘I know, but you know what?’ Mark casts me a sideways glance, a glance full of suspicion. ‘I think it’s really important right now for us to keep doing all our normal stuff. Stick to routines. You know? Do what we always do. And I bet you’ll go to soccer today and you’ll have a great time and you’ll see Angus and Ben and Zac and Lucy.’
‘I want Mum to take me,’ he says, looking straight at me now.
‘I know you do.’
It takes a promise to help Mark build a new backyard bike ramp just to get him to agree to change into his soccer outfit. All I have to do now is locate Dad. I find him, dressed in yesterday’s track pants and faded T-shirt, asleep in bed.
‘Dad!’ I jab his shoulder. ‘It’s ten past eight. Mark’s supposed to be at soccer.’
Getting no response, I jab him again. My father makes a weary groan and half opens his right eye in a way that tells me he’s having trouble focusing and dealing with the sunlight.
‘MARK HAS SOCCER.’ I say the words loud and slow as though my father is not only asleep, but also partly deaf and not overly familiar with English.
He winks at me, opens his other eye, blinks, and then, as if this is all too much for him, his eyelids shut up shop.
I lean over and pull back one of my father’s eyelids. ‘YOU NEED TO TAKE MARK TO SOCCER PRACTICE.’
But my father, the man who never sleeps past six, even on weekends, simply groans and shrugs me off, rolling over and turning his back on me. I hear him mumble something about letting Mark stay home if he wants. The room smells sad and stale. It looks as though Mum has never been here.
I stand there and look at the mess around me. The fast-food wrappers and pizza carton on the floor. The four empty Tiger Beer bottles, the drained bottle of Moet that looks suspiciously like the one Mum was keeping for my graduation, the partly raided cigarette packet. Ransacked family photo albums with snapshots peeled out from behind plastic covers have been strewn across the floor and over the bedspread. And among it all is my father, looking unshaven and dishevelled and smelling like hops. This is not how it’s meant to be. He’s the rational one.
‘We need routine,’ I want to say to him. ‘You’re the dad, you’re supposed to be keeping us together. Keeping everything else normal. We don’t even have milk.’ But I don’t say any of that. I just quickly tidy up as best I can, gather up the empty bottles, pick up the photos and albums and put them into a rough pile, open a few windows, close the curtains and grab his car keys on my way out.
The truth is that I hate driving my dad’s MG. I know it looks good and I’m the first to admit that it’s fun to be a passenger when the top’s down and Dad’s gliding down the M1 to our unit at Broadbeach. People always stare in an envious way, which is kinda cool and more than makes up for the lame-o Beach Boys music Dad makes us listen to. But this morning they’re not staring at me in an envious way, they’re staring in an ‘Oh my god, she’s like Stevie Wonder behind the wheel’ kinda way.
The problem is that this gorgeous 1967, shiny red convertible with wood panelling and original leather seats is also a manual. Driving Mark to soccer, I grind the gears every time I move from second to third. I just know I look terrified. Perched on the very edge of the seat and anxiously reminding myself to change down when I pull up to traffic lights, this ten-minute drive to Nudgee Junior School has never felt longer. My eyes flicker up to the rear-vision mirror. Mark is sitting in the back seat, Nutella toast in his hands. But he’s quiet – which isn’t like him. For once I would give anything to hear his usual inane chatter.
‘All right, back there?’ I try to conjure a jovial tone, which doesn’t last long because I quickly let out a ‘Shit!’ as I stall, having attempted to pull away from a set of lights in second gear. I can feel the stares of the drivers stuck behind me. There’s a row of them lined up and glaring at the back of my head.
It is with great relief that we pull into the school car park and I somehow manage to manoeuvre into one of the narrow spaces. I look over to the primary-school oval and see a bloke wearing too short shorts, a green polo shirt, wraparound sunnies and a broadbrimmed hat. He’s taking the kids through a warm up.
I take a deep breath, grateful to have taken the keys out of the ignition. Then I turn around to face Mark in the back seat.
He whispers, ‘I’m late. They’ve already started.’
I reach out and touch his grazed left knee. ‘I know, but we’re only a few minutes late. So it’ll be fine.’ I look over again at the group of parents standing by the side of the oval. ‘Now all I have to do is organise for one of the other parents to drive you home, okay? ’Cause I’m going to be at work. So you’re going to get a lift home with…’ I scan the crowd for any vaguely familiar faces. ‘With hopefully Ben, okay? I’ll sort it out now and let you know before I head off.’
Mark looks at me solemn-faced and says, ‘Whatever, Trevor,’ before climbing out of the back seat and heading towards the oval. I follow not far behind him, my hand trying to cut the glare from my eyes, squinting, trying to spot Mrs Christiansen in the crowd of parents sitting on eskies and collapsible chairs, clasping mugs of coffee or doing the crossword.
‘Excuse me?’
I turn around and find myself staring at a man with white sunscreen on his lips. Mark’s soccer coach.
‘You’re Mark’s…?’
‘Sister,’ I say to my own reflection in his wraparound sunnies. It’s a bit disconcerting.
‘And Mark’s sister is called?’
I stare at him now, wondering why he’s referring to me in the third person when I’m standing right in front of him. ‘Catriona.’
‘Rick.’
Rick with a silent ‘p’, I think.
‘Well, Catriona, we really like the kids to wear hats when they come to training.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know. I didn’t realise.’
‘Didn’t realise that it’s the middle of summer and already twenty-five degrees?’ He looks at me, eyebrows raised. ‘I’ve got a spare he can borrow today, but remember that for next time, hey?’ He gives me a bit of a nod and then heads back to the group.
‘There won’t be a next time,’ I want to scream back at him. ‘I’m not eve
n meant to be here, doing this.’ But Rick the Prick wouldn’t care. In his world of wraparound sunglasses and slip-slop-slapped lips, there’s no room for explanations. And I’m just today’s irresponsible parent. I begin to wonder if it’s genetic.
I turn and start to walk away.
‘Hey, Cat, Mark says he needs a lift home. We’re fine to drop him off.’
I turn and see Ben’s mum – Mrs Christiansen – dressed in her usual T-shirt and high-waisted jeans, her thick red curls fighting the sunglasses perched on her head trying to push her hair back.
‘Do you want me to drop him home?’ She smiles and all I can think is that this is what parents are supposed to look like. They’re supposed to be at their son’s soccer practice doing the crossword, looking daggy in high-waisted jeans. Not hungover. Or in a holding cell at the police station. I really do feel like I have Britney and K-Fed for parents. Except even they don’t have the jail part of the story.
‘Cat?’ She looks concerned as though I might actually be mildly autistic.
‘Sorry, yeah, thanks. That’d be great if you could. I’d… we’d appreciate it.’ I turn to leave.
‘So where’s Vanessa this morning? Is she here?’
I turn around again. ‘Um, no. She’s got a migraine. She’ll probably be in bed all day.’
‘Well, you tell her we hope she’s better soon.’ She smiles.
‘I will. Thanks.’ I half-smile back, and then speed walk to the car before she can ask me anything else, praying the whole time that Mark remembers to stick to the migraine story that we practised on the way here. Then, secure in the knowledge that I’m away from Mark and Mrs Christiansen and Dad and Mum and everyone else, I lean on the steering wheel and cry.
It’s two minutes to ten by the time I’m standing outside the electronic doors of Myer watching Ann-Maree direct a mannequin in the sports department. Her bony hand is on her protruding hip, and she’s directing people in a voice probably laden with contempt. I’m frozen there, standing on the sensor, as the electronic doors have a fit.
‘Screw this,’ I say out loud. It’s not even ten a.m. – I’m going to be late and I’m still a little blotchy faced from crying. The thing is that I need to speak to Mum. I’ve been putting it off because I thought she’d just sort of come home. But she hasn’t. Things have gotten worse. So I need to see her and find out what the hell is going on. And I need to tell her that Mark is eating pizza for breakfast and that there’s no milk, and that I’m having to drive Dad’s car, and that I don’t know what to say to people when they ask me where she is, and that Dad’s not coping. And she needs to come home.
I step inside the unused public phone box and grab my mobile phone out of my bag. Within seconds I’m calling in sick for work from immediately outside the building, wondering the whole time if I’ll make the ten-seventeen train to Toowong. Wondering what will happen if the human X-ray looks out through the Moggill Road doors right now and sees me in all my badly ironed glory arranging a sickie.
But she doesn’t see me. And Marg, the second in command who takes my call, doesn’t even seem to remember who I am, let alone seem suspicious at the traffic sounds that must be in the background.
‘Catriona Davis from Handbags? Rostered from ten till two? Right. Thanks for calling us, Catriona. I’ll let Ann-Maree know that you won’t be in today.’
I stand in the box, a little shocked at just how easy that was, peering out through the glass at my workplace just six metres away. Okay, so if someone saw me right now, standing in this phone box, what would I say? I’d say that I got here, had every intention of being at work today, but then I was – what? Overcome with nausea?
It’s better if I go now. Better from the work point of view, better if I want to make that train. I push my way out through the glass door, head down, telling myself not to risk one last glance at Westfield.
And that’s when I walk straight into Joel Hedges and Luke Pickett.
‘What are you doing here?’ Luke practically spits the words at me. Oh god. This is the last thing I need.
‘Yeah, hi.’ I look around, worried now that Ann-Maree – anyone inside – is going to see me.
‘Are you working today?’ Joel says, and it’s a totally reasonable question.
‘Ah, um, no.’ I glance over his shoulder through the main doors, praying that Ann-Maree doesn’t turn around.
‘So why are you dressed in your Myer uniform?’ Joel nods at my black-and-white outfit.
‘I was supposed to be working, but I actually have to go and visit my mum.’
Joel’s forehead crinkles and I realise what I’ve said. Why would I have to visit my mum? Where is she that she needs visiting? Why isn’t she at home, with my dad, like she’s supposed to be? This is what Joel and Luke are thinking. I can tell. And I don’t want either of them knowing that my mum has left us. I don’t want either of them knowing anything about my family. And all of these thoughts are flipping over and over in my head as I stand there outside Myer at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.
‘You see, I have to visit her because she’s, um… in hospital.’ HOSPITAL? ‘And I have to go and see her.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
I turn and stare at Luke. God, I hate Luke.
‘What’s wrong with her? Well, she –’
‘Is it serious?’ Joel asks.
‘Well…’ And I look from Joel to Luke and back to Joel and then I look over their shoulders, still praying that Ann-Maree doesn’t turn around. And meanwhile my mind has gone completely blank as to any possible reasons why my mother might be in hospital. So I go with something I saw on The Bold and the Beautiful yesterday afternoon. Suddenly my mother and Ridge Forrester have a bit in common.
‘Coma. She’s in a coma.’
Joel’s eyes narrow. I shift from one foot to the other.
‘Your mother is in a coma?’
‘Mmm.’
In Myer, Ann-Maree has stopped berating someone I can’t quite see. She’s satisfied with the mannequin and she’s now turning around to face the glass doors. She’s practically staring right at me. SHIT. I move a little to the left in an attempt to hide behind Joel and Luke. Bend my knees just a touch.
‘So, is she, you know, okay, your mum?’
‘Ah, yeah. Yep, she’s fine…’ I say, making sure that Luke’s big fat head is blocking Ann-Maree’s view of me. ‘It’s all good.’
‘All good, except, maybe, for the coma part,’ Joel says, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
‘Right, well, the coma is only sometimes. She’s usually better than that. Drowsy and… It’s appendicitis mainly.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say loudly, but perhaps still crouching a little. I push my handbag strap further onto my shoulder, turn my back on the boys and head for the train.
It feels wrong that now, in order to see my mother, I have to be ‘buzzed in’ to some Best Western apartment in Toowong. She’s no longer just around. In the kitchen. Out by the washing line. No longer within hollering distance. Now if I want to see her I have to get a train to a neighbouring suburb and be ‘buzzed in’.
When she answers the door, she takes me by surprise. Partly because her hair is down and in its rarely seen, naturally wavy state. Partly because for one of the first times in her life she isn’t wearing make-up. But mostly because she answers the door practically nude.
‘OH MY GOD.’
‘Sweetheart!’ she says, her face splitting into a cut-watermelon grin. Her arms reach out to me from beneath the drapey sleeves of her familiar red-and-blue silk dressing-gown. A gown that at home looks unremarkable, but here, gaping open and revealing most of my mother’s right breast, the same gown looks strangely lurid.
‘I’m so glad to see you.’ She moves in to give me a hug, but I immediately take a step back. ‘Your robe is…’ I gesture at her while keeping my gaze at eye level. ‘Oh my god, open. God!’
She smiles at me, not the least bit em
barrassed, re-ties the belt of her robe, smoothes out her hair and turns on her heel. ‘That’s the beauty of living alone, Cat. You can walk around naked, if you want,’ she says as I follow her into the apartment. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘I think my eyes are bleeding.’
She looks over her shoulder, then rolls her eyes, makes a ‘tch’ sound and says, ‘The human body is a wonderful thing, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ Then she hooks her arm in mine. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.’
She manoeuvres me like a bouncer towards the cane lounge. ‘Sit. Sit,’ she says. ‘I’ve got some Tim Tams if you want some? Yes?’ She looks at me and nods her head, answering for me. ‘And are you thirsty?’
I shrug and say, ‘Dunno. I s’pose.’ But I don’t sit down. Won’t. This is not about making myself comfortable. Instead I wander around the lounge, arms crossed over my chest, trying to make sense of the fact that Vanessa the Undresser here is now living in a motel apartment featuring cane furniture and water-colour paintings of parrots. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as she flutters around her new kitchen, too familiar with her surroundings. I feel an ache as I realise how relaxed she seems. She’s not supposed to be like this. She’s supposed to be miserable. Like Dad.
Minutes later she brings over the biscuits, carefully arranged on a too-big white dinner plate, and a glass of apple juice for us both. She’s put a frangipani behind her left ear. I perch on the edge of the lounge. She perches next to me. My eyes glance down to see my mother’s right boob doing a curtain call.
‘Hey, Booby McBooberson, could you just, you know, get changed? I can’t sit here and drink apple juice with one of your breasts staring straight at me.’
‘Oh, haha, yes, of course. I was actually just about to have a shower.’ Her laugh is nervous now and her hands fumble with the silky belt and then move to her throat. I watch as she slips away into some room down a hallway. Her room, I guess.
‘You know, Mark’s practically chain-eating chocolate biscuits,’ I call out. Even I can hear that my tone is accusing. ‘He’s turning into that fat kid from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.’
