by Lisa Heidke
And I haven’t even mentioned the fracas over the toilet …
‘Bathrooms aren’t just about being clean,’ the sales assistant told us. ‘They’re a whole-of-life concept.’
Max’s patience was running thin by now, and his left foot tapped faster and faster on the grey vinyl floor as the sales guy went on and on and on.
‘Today’s up-market bathroom mimics the day spa experience, as busy people like yourselves seek pampering in the midst of their hectic schedules. The Magic Flush 4000 is unique. With its heated soft-close seat, it’ll be the centrepiece of any elegant bathroom -’
‘How much?’ Max snapped.
‘It’s state -’
‘I get that. How much?’
‘Three thousand -’
And Max exploded and stormed out of the store.
Was that the final straw for him? How could I tell people he’d left me over a toilet?
I ring Max’s phone again. Still off.
Another bottle of Grange bites the dust, but there’s still plenty of great wine in the cellar. I creep down to restock, making my way silently past the builders.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Patch sitting down, drinking a cup of coffee. He’s nice enough - pleasant temperament, easy laugh. Some might even call him charming. Tall and tanned, with fashionably messy caramel-coloured hair, he’s easy on the eye too. Unfortunately, he’s also titanically slack and his coffee breaks never seem to end.
Then there’s Jamaican Joel, Patch’s second-in-charge - a nuggetty fellow with long dark dreadlocks. He’s always lurking in the background, tapping his safety glasses. And the twins, Tom and Ted. When I first met them I thought I was going mad, or needed glasses. ‘We’re not that similar,’ said Tom or Ted. I beg to differ. They are identical.
‘I like snakes, all reptiles, in fact. But Tom doesn’t.’
‘I love being in the dark,’ said the other.
‘And you twitch when you’re angry.’
Their chat gives me headaches.
‘Make it easy on yourself,’ Patch advised. ‘Call them both “T” and be done with it.’
The others - there must be five at least, all interchangeable to me - mostly sit on their rather large bottoms smoking and swilling coffee. And, I suspect, urinating on my hydrangeas, which are looking very sad since the builders’ arrival.
I load several bottles of Henschke’s Hill of Grace into a green recyclable bag and carry it through the dirt pit that’s supposed to be my new parquetry kitchen floor. Patch calls out as I slink past but I pretend deafness, run up the stairs to my bedroom and close the door behind me. I don’t mean to slam it, but somehow the doorknob slips out of my hands. It’s so undignified having to sneak past builders in your own house.
I’m into my second Hill of Grace when the phone rings. Gloria again, in serious hounding mode. I listen to her bang on to the machine about a celebrity archery tournament and how I simply must let her put me forward as a participant.
What the hell am I doing with my life? Archery games? Half-empty wine bottles lying around?
In a burst of clarity and optimism, I realise I can’t hide in my bedroom forever. Bella and Sam are coming home tomorrow. Whether Max has left me or not, I have to get my act together.
Day 5
Easier said than done. Instead of cleaning the house, showering and shopping for groceries, I spend the majority of the day crying so that I’m puffy, bloated and red-faced when I pick up my hungry and exhausted kids.
‘Mum, you look really bad,’ says my daughter, Isabella, who’s far too switched-on for a ten-year-old. You’d never guess we were mother and daughter. For a start, she has dark brown hair while mine is reddish with blonde highlights. Bella has beautiful olive skin, gorgeous big eyes, rosebud lips and long skinny legs. My skin is fair, almost translucent, and it’s been a long time since any part of me could be described as skinny, or even slim. Shapely, certainly.
Now Sam, he definitely is my child with his fair skin, red hair and pale green eyes.
‘Where’s Dad?’ he asks after we arrive home. A typical eight-year-old, he never usually notices anything unless it’s right in front of his nose.
I return to my bedroom, and my bed.
‘Camp was great, Mum. Thanks for asking,’ says Bella, coming into my room after a while. ‘God, it’s filthy in here. I can hardly breathe for the dust. What’s with all the bottles?’
Sam joins her. ‘Why is the carpet all wet and red?’
‘There’s no food in the house.’
‘When are we going to have a kitchen again?’
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘The toilet’s broken.’
On and on they go, bombarding me with complaints and questions.
I look over at the photo beside the bed. It’s of the four of us - me, Max, Sam and Bella - taken five years ago on a beach holiday. We’re all smiles. It’s just a brief romanticised snapshot of our lives, though. Earlier in the day the children had been getting on Max’s nerves. And looking at my beaming self, I notice the hint of a double chin, and think how boring and conservative my blue sarong looked. No wonder Max left me.
‘Mum, we have to eat,’ says Sam, interrupting my reverie.
I briefly think about cooking a nutritious meal, then abandon the idea and ask Bella to dial Mitzi’s Chinese home delivery.
Day 6
‘Mum, when are you getting out of bed?’
Bloody kids. Why can’t I hibernate here in my darkened nest forever?
‘I’m sick, Bella,’ I groan, peering sleepily at the clock radio on the bedside table. ‘It’s Saturday morning. It’s nine o’clock. Go and watch cartoons.’
‘But we’ve been awake since six-thirty and there’s no food in the house, not even enough milk for Weetbix.’
The way Bella talks you’d think I was a completely hopeless mother, which is far from the truth. On school days I’m always up (reluctantly) at 6.40 am making sure the children are fed, watered and clothed before sending them off to school with a nutritious packed lunch. Okay, so sometimes it’s a Baker’s Delight bacon and cheese roll and an apple. Still.
‘Anyway, I called Nanna,’ Bella goes on.
‘What?’ I say, sitting up quickly.
My mother marches into my bedroom, yanks back the curtains and opens the windows. ‘For goodness sake, Lucy,’ she bellows, ‘I should report you for neglect. And it’s so stuffy in here.’
How is it my mother can still make me feel like a naughty seven-year-old?
‘I’m the one who’s neglected,’ I say, sniffing a little. ‘And sick. And bloody stressed.’
Mum gives me a withering look. She’s a big woman, not so much in girth as in stature (I inherited my height from her), and while I’m slightly taller, she has an imposing (some might say overbearing) nature. Her hair, like Bella’s, is cut in an immaculate bob, except hers is pure white.
‘What have you been doing while the children were at camp? You didn’t return any of my calls. And Bella says there’s absolutely no food in the house.’
‘There is food. I bought some. The builders have probably scoffed it. Drunk half the cellar as well, no doubt. They’re a disgrace. But I can’t watch them twenty-four seven.’
‘But Mum,’ says Bella, waving a piece of paper in the air, ‘the builders left two days ago - it says so in this note. It also says that if you’re not going to talk to them in a civilised manner, they’re not coming back. Patch has left a number for you to call when you’re ready to apologise.’
‘Give that to me,’ I say, snatching the note out of her hand. I have a hazy recollection of a minor altercation about turning off the ear-splitting power tools that had been going full speed fourteen hours a day. I might even have mumbled something about fucking power tools operated by a bunch of fucking imbeciles. Not sure.
‘Off you go now, Bella. I need to talk to your mother,’ says Mum. Her voice has its what-have-I-done-to-deserve-a-daughter-like-this tone.
Oh dear.
Bella eyes me suspiciously. ‘My school uniform hasn’t been ironed, my camp clothes need washing and I’ve almost run out of other clothes to wear.’
‘I hear you,’ I say, slipping further under the doona.
‘Where’s Max?’ Mum barks after Bella has gone off to find more dust and grime to complain about.
‘Away on business.’
It’s not such a lie. He could be away on business. Mind you, that doesn’t explain why I’m lying in bed with the curtains drawn, sporting greasy hair and spots, and surrounded by vintage Grange empties and experiencing a headache that’d reach at least three point five on the Richter scale.
Mum’s itching to question me further, but still working out how to go about it. Quite frankly, I’m not up to any quizzing about Max. If I confide in her, she’ll ask the hard questions and I have no answers.
‘Okay,’ she says finally. ‘Let’s get you up and into a warm bath.’
‘What for? I’m living in hell, Mum, in a half-finished house -’
‘Don’t talk to me about hell, Lucy, we all have problems.
It’s a question of how you deal with them.’
Half a bottle of Henschke is just within reach. I grab for it and miss. Just as well. I’d have been torn between wanting to drink it and wanting to hit Mum over the head with it. She stares me down and I slowly pull back my hand.
‘There’s no hot water,’ I say.
‘I’ve boiled water for you. The bath is perfect.’
‘But Mum,’ I protest, as she pulls the doona off the bed.
‘But Mum, nothing.’
It’s only after I ease myself into the scalding bath that I realise I’ve barely been out of my bedroom all week. I certainly haven’t left the house. I wonder what’s been going on in the wider world. Perhaps there’s been a change of government? George Clooney might have married? Amy Winehouse might have gone straight? Maybe my concrete slab has been poured - Yeah. Like that will have happened.
Half an hour later, I’m squeaky clean and I wander downstairs. The house - what still exists of it - resembles a bomb site. There’s dust everywhere, and the floors are littered with nails, wood, half-drunk cups of coffee in filthy mugs and throwaway polystyrene cups. Gross.
And Bella’s right. The builders have downed tools and disappeared.
This is all I need.
Outside in the garden - otherwise known as the ten-centimetre patch of greenish grass that hasn’t yet been destroyed by wood piles, a skip and other assorted garbage - Mum has barbecued sausages for the kids’ lunch.
‘I told you there was food in the house,’ I say with a smirk.
Mum glares at me. ‘I did some shopping on the way over here.’
‘So nice to have a home-cooked meal after all the takeaways we’ve been eating for the last few months,’ says Bella as she and Sam stuff their faces.
‘We’ve had no kitchen to cook in,’ I say in self-defence.
‘What on earth are you wearing?’ Mum asks, staring at my green puffer jacket and black woolly Ugg boots. ‘You look like a caterpillar larva.’
I ignore her as I wolf down three sausages and several cherry tomatoes in rapid succession. I’m starving.
‘You should have told me Max was away. I would have come and stayed earlier,’ Mum goes on.
‘Staying? What’s this about staying?’
‘Bella thinks it’s a good idea, just till her father’s back.’
‘I am perfectly capable of looking after my own children, thank you very much.’ I speak with such authority I almost convince myself.
‘Lucy, there are newspapers littering the driveway, piles of washing to be done, the house is full of dust -’
‘I have no clean clothes,’ adds Bella sulkily.
‘Quite right,’ says Mum. ‘I was surprised to find Oscar still here.’
Startled and guilty, I look over at Oscar, our snooty Persian, who looks very thin and is currently choking on a chop bone.
‘I was sick,’ I say. ‘I’m better now. After lunch you can go home, honestly. I’m sure Dad’s missing you.’ I can only hope.
‘He’s at the footy all afternoon and will probably go out afterwards. He’s a big boy. He can manage by himself,’ says Mum.
‘What? And I can’t?’
‘I’ll just stay for the night,’ Mum insists. ‘Just to make sure you’re all okay. You are okay, aren’t you, Lucy?’
God! It’s so depressing that the highlight of the evening is watching Big Brother in the makeshift laundry/kitchen/ family room.
I know how the inmates feel, trapped in their prison and at the mercy of BB - or in my case, Patch and my mother. I drift off to sleep with the words ‘Big Brother will be speaking to you in the morning,’ except I hear them in my mother’s voice. It’s rather unsettling.
Day 7
Mum has finally departed. In the last twenty-four hours she’s shopped for even more groceries, picked up umpteen newspapers from the driveway, and done five loads of washing, which are now dried, folded, ironed and in their rightful drawers and wardrobes. She has also cleaned the pool, changed several blown light bulbs and cooked a microwave lasagne and microwave chocolate cake for tonight’s dinner. Who knew you could do all that in a microwave?
‘Is Dad at a conference?’ Bella asks after Mum leaves.
A conference! I hadn’t thought of that.
‘Yes,’ I say, clutching at straws, ‘and it’s going for a couple of weeks … at least.’
That seems to satisfy her - or at least shut her up - for the moment.
As Bella and Sam rummage through their pencil cases and squabble over rubbers, textas and pencil sharpeners in readiness for school tomorrow, I feel like crying. It’s been almost a week since Max put down his fork and calmly said he’d had enough. Enough of what? And what sane person could walk out on his kids without even saying goodbye? We’ve heard diddly-squat from him.
I’m struck by a terrible thought. Maybe something has happened to him.
I call the police and speak to a Constable Peacock, retelling the whole sorry story of Max’s disappearance. Constable Peacock, who sounds all of twelve, isn’t keen about my suggestion of filing a missing person’s report.
‘Given your husband informed his work that he was taking two months’ leave, I seriously doubt he is a missing person,’ he says.
‘Well, he’s missing from his family,’ I insist.
He tells me it’s not a crime for a grown man to leave home.
‘It bloody well should be!’ I start, then stop and think.
‘What about Max’s car?’ I ask. ‘Can I report his car missing?’
‘Sure,’ he replies patiently. ‘You can do that.’
So I do.
Later that night, as Sam, Bella and I huddle over Mum’s lasagne in front of the telly, I tell them about Gloria’s ludicrous pitch about the celebrity archery tournament.
‘Why don’t you go on Celebrity Overhaul instead, Mum?’ asks Sam.
‘Or The Biggest Loser?’ says Bella.
‘Because I’m not fat,’ I reply to their giggles.
But after they go to bed, I check myself out in the full-length bedroom mirror. Okay, so I’m no Angelina Jolie. But it’s not like I weigh fifteen stone and have cottage cheese thighs either. As I examine my crow’s-feet I wonder if Max might have left me for a younger woman. Max and I certainly have been drifting apart. When we first met, we shared a lumpy double futon and slept huddled together to avoid the uncomfortable bumps and bulges. After Sam was born, we bought a King - some nights it wasn’t nearly big enough.
Day 8
After yet another day of maddening, circular thoughts, I venture outdoors to pick up the children from school. I almost get lost on the way, what with roadworks, detours and crazy people doing U-turns. Following the lead of those before me, I attempt an outrageously illegal three-point turn near some nasty trenches and get rear-ended by an enormous silver Land Cruiser.
/> ‘What the fuck,’ I say, climbing out of my mangled car.
‘Whoops,’ says the more painfully thin of two emaciated teenage girls.
‘Sorry about that,’ says the taller, almost-brunette one.
‘Look at this,’ I shriek, pointing at my crumpled bumper, dented boot and broken rear lights.
‘Aren’t you someone famous?’ the almost-brunette asks, staring at me, trying to figure it out.
‘I know! You’re in that broccoli commercial: “Make mine broccoli, please, Mum,”’ says the stick, who looks like she lives on broccoli and not much else.
‘Yes, yes,’ I say, enjoying the recognition but not willing to be generous. ‘Have you got insurance?’
‘Sure, like, Dad’s insurance will cover it.’
I roll my eyes. Of course it will.
We exchange information and I get back in my car and limp off to the sound of: ‘Holy moley, Mum’s made broccoli.
Hot and steaming, now we’re beaming.’
Little shits.
Bella and Sam are already on the bus by the time I arrive at school and I have to tap on one of the windows several times to get their attention. Bella gives me a look of horror, shooing at me with her hands. There was a time when Bella wouldn’t take one step onto a bus without me. Now she’s reluctant even to look at me.
The rather rotund driver climbs down from his seat and bellows, ‘Lady, step back. We’re moving out.’
‘But I want my children,’ I say.
Bella continues gesticulating with her hands and several other kids make silly faces through the glass.
‘Seems they don’t want you, lady. And don’t tell me this is a custody thing. I just drive the bus. I’m not getting involved in any domestic stuff.’
‘I just want to take my children off the bus,’ I say in the most authoritative tone I can muster. By now, twenty or more kids and a handful of parents and dog-walkers have ventured over to see what the fuss is about.
He blocks my path as I attempt to get past him. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I say, bumping into him slightly.
It’s crazy how these misunderstandings can escalate so quickly. He says I can’t get on the bus; I politely point out that he’s overweight; he calls me rude (Me? Rude?) and mumbles about reporting me to the principal; I tell him he’s inarticulate … Anyway, the upshot is I’m forbidden from approaching said bus driver ever again, regardless of circumstances.
