by Lindy Dale
Chapter 19
“He did what?”
Lani has this look of utter horror on her face as I tell her about the missing furniture over our morning coffee and a huge block of Cadbury Popping Chocolate. I’m feeling the need to comfort eat today. Everything that touches my lips is smeared with chocolate.
“Has he even contacted you to tell you why?”
Breaking a row of squares from the block, I put them into my mouth before shaking my head. Little bubbles of fizz burst on my tongue and I feel somewhat soothed by the sugar hit.
“Not a word. He just took his stuff and left.”
Yesterday was rough. After our TV picnic, I bustled Rory off to bed and spent the evening alternately texting Brendan, downing glasses of wine and sobbing. I became so desperate when he wouldn’t answer my calls, I contemplated getting Rory out of bed and bundling him into the car so I could get to the shop before it closed and buy every piece of chocolate in the place. Thank heavens sitting in the pantry was a box left from when Mum came to stay. I would have done it otherwise.
Then, as I was about to put a load of washing in the drier, I came across two of Brendan’s new shirts. In his haste to escape, he’d left them behind. After a renewed bout of sobbing, I did the most unthinkable, yet cathartic, thing. I took those shirts into the family room, sat on the floor with a pair of scissors and a rerun episode of Desperate Housewives and cut the shirts into strips. Lovely, straight, baby blue and white ribbons of shirt which I bundled into a plastic bag and put in an express envelope to be posted to Brendan today. The evening rounded off with me challenging myself to see how many golf balls I could throw and hit at a target made from the photo of Brendan and I that used to stand on the beside table. It’s amazing how dexterous I am, especially after two bottles of wine.
Now, in the glaring light of my hangover, I understand. I don’t feel angry — I disposed of that emotion while hurling things — I’m simply incredibly sad and hollow. Brendan’s wiped me from his memory as if I’ve ceased to exist. He’s left me because he can’t deal with the changes to my body. He wants the perfect partner and I’m no longer perfect. I’m damaged goods. I always assumed he loved me and maybe he did, but not enough, it seems, to accept these imperfections.
I’m also beginning to think I misjudged him, that Mum was right. Brendan’s affection was simply another display, an outward show of our seemingly perfect life. Our relationship was merely a marketing exercise.
I guess I’ll never know. What I do know is my eyes are like puffy slits from the tears and my head is hurting so much I’m beginning to wish I’d saved the repeat prescription of painkillers Dr. Downer gave me, the one I so cheerfully threw in the bin a month ago because I was ‘back to normal’.
“Is there someone else?”
We both know Lani’s scraping the bottom of the barrel with the question. Brendan would never have an affair. After the disaster that was his childhood, he vowed he would never make someone else suffer the way his mother suffered. I admired him for that. I loved his conviction to stay true.
“You know there isn’t. He simply can’t deal with the fact that I had cancer and now I only have one breast. Heaven knows, how he would have coped if I’d had chemo and lost my hair.”
Lani reaches over to cover my hand with hers. “I hate to say it, but it might be a good thing he’s gone.”
“At least I can fit the car in the garage now he’s taken that stupid canoe.” I laugh. I know I’m making light of it, sounding like I don’t care, but seriously, what else can I do? Humour is the only thing that might save me from a breakdown.
“The funny thing is, if he’d hung around a bit longer, he would have seen you looking even more perfect than you do now.”
“Oh Lani, you don’t have to be nice. I know I look a fright.”
“But you don’t. You look healthy, glowing even.”
“Not in Brendan’s eyes,” I say, sadly. “To him, I’m no longer perfect and you know how he is about everything being exactly the way it should be. He used to rearrange the cushions after I did the housework, for Pete’s sake.”
Lani breaks the last row of chocolate in half, giving one piece to me. “Don’t forget the time he told you he didn’t want you to iron his shirts anymore because you put ‘train tracks’ up the arms.”
A reminiscent laugh escapes my lips. “He had no clue I did it on purpose. I hate ironing shirts.”
“He was such an obsessive compulsive.”
“The most annoying thing was the way he used to line the items up in the pantry in alphabetical order and then put the oldest ones at the front so I wouldn’t have out of date cans on the shelves. Angela and Jeff were over for dinner a couple of weeks ago and she switched everything on her way back from the loo. Brendan almost had a coronary when he discovered it.” I pause for a second, thinking back over our life together. “You know, I never noticed those things in the beginning, they didn’t bother me that much.”
“What is it they say? The quirks you find endearing at the beginning of a relationship are the ones that annoy you the most at the end?”
“I think so.”
“For all his faults, and you know I was never that keen on him, I never expected Brendan would be such a coward, to leave you without a word when you needed him most.”
I sniff and blow my nose into my tissue. At this rate of consumption, I’ll be keeping the Kleenex factory in business. “He wouldn’t see it as cowardly. You know he hates confrontation and arguments. To him, this would have been the least painful way.”
At this, Lani hops off her stool and wraps her bony arms around me. Her armful of bangles pokes into the back of my ribs. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Me neither.”
“You poor thing. You don’t need this.”
No, I don’t need it. Not now, especially. Dealing with Brendan’s desertion would be hard enough if I were healthy but now? I’ll need a very strong set of shoulders to get through this one.
*****
That night, after finishing our dinner standing at the bench because Brendan took the table, I tuck Rory into bed and settle myself on my own bed. I’ve dragged the TV in and hoisted it on top of an old packing crate I found in the garage — there’s little point sitting in the family room when it’s as bare as a boutique after a winter clearance sale. The TV’s sitting at the end of the bed connected by an extension cord to the power point. One of Brendan’s extension cords. I can’t believe he wasn’t thorough enough to have spotted it in his clear out; he must have been in a hurry. Still, it’s worked in my favour. I have something to connect the TV to power and, if Brendan ever returns, I also have an implement to strangle him with. Because right about now, the anger phase is kicking in.
Digging my hand into the massive bowl of Jaffa balls I have beside me, I toss two into my mouth, relishing in the sticky, orangey, chocolaty taste. I can absolutely understand why separations get ugly. After twenty-four hours, my sympathy for Brendan has worn off. I want to punch him hard in the head. I want to smash every last thing he’s left behind. I want to kill him for what he’s done to me. But mostly for what he’s done to Rory. Brendan’s the only constant father figure Rory has ever had and well, frankly, I think that we both deserve some type of explanation. Not that I’d let him into the house to do it.
As my hand reaches for a second clutch of chocolate, the doorbell rings. Suddenly stricken that it might be Brendan, though I’m sure he’d use his key, I freeze and listen as it rings a couple more times.
Shit. What has he done to me? I’m too afraid to answer the door now in case it is him. I’ve no idea what to say. I was never like this before. I always had a voice. It seems that years of being in a relationship with him has robbed me of that and I never even knew. I remember Mum telling me to stick up for myself, way back when, but I said she was overreacting because she’d never been a member of the Brendan Fan Club. But she was right. Brendan was stifling me. I did everything to make o
ur relationship a success and he never bent an inch in return. I’m conscious, now, that I’ve been so concerned with making Brendan happy, I’ve turned into someone else. Someone who never says what she thinks for fear of confrontation. Someone who would hide the chocolate wrappers so she wouldn’t have to suffer the looks of disappointment.
Well, not anymore.
If Brendan is on the other side of that door, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. I gather the courage to uncurl myself from the bed and go to the door.
It’s Lani.
I almost collapse with the relief because despite my bravado, I don’t think I’m quite ready for a showdown.
“Hey,” Lani says. She’s carrying two faded beanbags — the sitting on type, not the school activity type — and has a large box of survival supplies at her feet.
“I was about to ring the police.” She thrusts the biggest beanbag at me. “Why are you not answering the door?”
“I thought it was Brendan. If I see him I might stab him with the only knife he left me.”
“Understandable.” She picks up the cardboard box and hitches the other beanbag over her shoulder like a Santa sack. She pushes past me, heading towards the family room. “I bought a couple of bits and pieces to tide you over until you can restock. There’s these beanbags, obviously, chocolate, wine, a lamp and some of my vegetarian frittata. I’ve got a camping table and chairs in the car, too. We can bring them in later.”
“You’re an angel, Lan.”
“I know.”
We dump the beanbags in the middle of the room, in front of an old rug from our bedroom, which Brendan has so kindly left me. Somehow, they manage to make the room look even emptier than before. And the striped zigzag patterns of citrus green and magenta could have the potential to cause headaches under the right circumstances.
“They go with the décor,” Lani says, noting the lack of furniture. “Sort of early student housing. The camping table should finish the look nicely.”
“I have a packing crate for a TV console in the bedroom. We can bring that out to accessorise.”
“Definitely. And a couple of band posters and some plastic door beads.”
Laughing, despite myself, I go to the kitchen and fetch a couple of wine glasses from the shelf. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was about to sink into the depths of anger and despair. And console myself with another kilo of chocolate. I was imagining strangling Brendan with the extension cord.”
The glasses are full, so I hand one to her and nip into the bedroom, returning with the remains of the bowl of Jaffas. I’m not sure the flavour will mix with Shiraz but I’m willing to try.
Lani plonks herself into one of the beanbags. Her knees are under her chin and she’s trying to rearrange her skirt so only a minimum amount of leg is visible but all I can see is her outstretched hand, awkwardly clenching her wine so it doesn’t spill. I put the bowl of chocolate in between us and arrange myself in the other beanbag. Lani’s put her wine down and is now fiddling with the controls of the music system on the iPad. Suddenly, Adele blasts around the living room, singing Rolling in the Deep.
“Oops,” Lani says with a smile. “I forgot you don’t have furniture to soak up the volume. I’ll turn it down.”
“No. Don’t.”
“Won’t it wake Rory?”
“His bedroom door’s closed and, anyway, he’d sleep through a cyclone. I trained him that way when he was a baby.” I laugh and take another few Jaffa balls. “This is the perfect break up album,” I say, listening to the lyrics.
“My thoughts exactly. It’s sad. It’s bitter and twisted. And later, when we get a bit pissed, we can do karaoke to Rumour Has It.”
I clink my glass with Lani’s and take a huge gulp. “Perfect. I should be over Brendan by tomorrow at this rate.”
Chapter 20
The days go on much as before. The next Saturday, after footy, Rory and I go shopping for some new furniture to fill the cavernous space in our family room. I’m sure Brendan never considered we might need something to sit on when he took the sofa. He was probably thinking about retrieving the things he contributed to the relationship, feeling that he was taking back what was rightfully his. I hate him for that. I hate him for his anal, obsessive, sticking-to-the-rules ways. But at least we have a roof over our heads.
In the last few days, I’ve travelled from a place where I’d gladly take the biggest knife I could and cut off Brendan’s balls, to one where I cried for the loss of my life as I knew it. I’ve been angry one minute and resigned the next. I’ve been gung ho about getting on with it and then bereft, feeling as though my lungs have been removed and replaced with rocks that are making it impossible to breathe. I’ve wanted to give up on a few occasions, especially when I discovered Brendan withdrew most of the money from our joint emergency account, the account that was earmarked for my surgery.
Which has left me pondering, is he doing these things to purposefully be hurtful or does he truly have no clue?
Despite everything, I’m trudging on. I have to. Brendan might be gone but Rory’s here. He’ll always be here and his welfare is my main priority. I have other things to concentrate on too, like being fit and healthy for my surgery — after I find the funds to pay for it, that is. Fortunately, I’d rejoined the gym before the cash disappeared so I’m working hard to be toned by the time the surgery rolls around. And if I happen to see Brendan and he wants me back, well, bully for him. The big middle finger is the only thing he’ll be getting from me. I won’t let him ruin my life and Rory’s and, honestly, after everything that’s happened in the past few months, the break up is like one more bump on the road. I can get through it like everything else.
To get me started on the right track, Angela’s bought tickets to a Breast Cancer cocktail fundraiser, which is sort of ironic, I know. She’s nagged me about it for days, wanting to know if I’ve gotten a babysitter, do I have something cute to wear? She wouldn’t even let me reimburse her for my ticket, so I’m beginning to think she may have an ulterior motive. Angela’s notorious for trying to set people up. I think she fancies herself as Perth’s answer to the Millionaire Matchmaker.
The function centre in King’s Park, where the event’s to be held, is an unassuming looking building set into the side of a grassy knoll on one side and a cliff face on the other. As we drive up to the front door, flanked by huge grass trees, I realise I must have walked past it a thousand times without ever noticing it. King’s Park has that effect on you. The eucalypts along Fraser Avenue are so spectacular, it’s easy to overlook other, simpler features.
We get out of the taxi and make our way down the gravel path towards the double doors. The place is lit up like a Christmas tree and snatches of music are dancing along the hall and out to greet us. I’m happy, which is quite an unusual sentiment, given the variety of feelings I’ve dredged through lately.
“This was a great idea, Ange,” I say, as we enter the room. “I’m so glad you pressured me into it.”
“Should be fun,” Jeff says.
“Anything beats sitting at home looking at the space where your couch used to be.” Angela has a twinkle in her eye that tells me she’s planned for it to be a very fun night. Especially, if she manages to pull off whatever it is she’s clearly got up her sleeve. I sincerely hope she’s not going to set me up with one of her divorced friends. I may be feeling better but a relationship isn’t on the radar at this point in time. The concept doesn’t even register on Google Earth.
After Jeff deserts us, having seen someone he knows, Angela and I stand for a bit, making up our minds what we’d like to do first.
“I wonder if they’re going to feed us?” Angela asks, her eyes scanning the room in search of a tray of food. “I haven’t had a bite all day.”
“It’s a cocktail party,” I reply. “I’m sure they’ll have finger food of some sort. Let’s ask that waitress when we get a drink.”
“Good plan.”
We make our way to
where a waitress is perched on a fake stone pedestal, impersonating a statue and looking frightfully bored. Her body, swathed in some type of toga to make her look like a Greek Goddess, is frozen in place while her arm, is moving as if by remote control, thrusting the tray in people’s paths as they pass.
“Bet I can make her smile,” Angela says, readying a finger to give the poor girl a tickle under the armpit.
The waitress doesn’t flinch. She stares over our heads and glides the tray to a spot under our noses. I think she may have heard that joke before.
I take two glasses and we wander round the corner to the silent auction area.
“By the way, I meant to tell you when you got in the taxi how nice you look tonight,” Angela remarks. She’s sipping her drink and eyeballing the room in a distracted fashion.
“Thanks. I’m feeling more like my old self. You know, I don’t think I comprehended how much Brendan squashed my personality until he left. It’s like a weight’s been lifted. He never let me speak or have a contradictory opinion to his. And I’m sure I was an embarrassment at times rather than the accessory he wanted for a girlfriend.”
“I always said he was a prick.”
“Yes, you did. On more than one occasion, if I remember. I wish it hadn’t taken me such a long time to see it. I can’t believe I defended him so staunchly.”
“They do say love’s blind.”
“I must have qualified for a cane and a seeing eye dog, then.”
“That top is gorgeous,” Angela says, changing the subject. “Where’d you get it?”
“I’ve had it for ages. It didn’t fit until this week.”
“You look thinner. I hope it’s not because of Brendan. You need to stay healthy.”
“I’m sure he’d like to take credit, but I’ve actually started going to the gym again.”
“Good for you.”
We stop at the end of a long stretch of tables. A group of people is perusing the lots up for auction and there’s much discussion in front of us as to the ‘real’ cost of a family portrait package and whether you could DIY it. I know there’s a weekend away up for grabs, somewhere here, so I begin searching along the trestle. A mini-break for Rory and I would be lovely. Room service and a massage would make my life complete.
