by Lucy Arthurs
He comes rushing in.
PATRICK
What’s wrong?
ME
Um. Who’s Tracey?
He looks blank.
ME
And Cheryl. Julie?
I try for a casual chuckle that suggests I’m okay with it.
ME
Mirandaaaahhhh?
I try to make it sound expressive and silly, selling the story that I’m okay with his litany of undisclosed liaisons.
The penny drops.
PATRICK
You looked in my diary?
ME
Yes. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. You told me you didn’t do casual, that you hadn’t dated anyone for months and that you were never lucky with women.
PATRICK
You read my diary.
ME
Yes.
PATRICK
I knew I should have hidden it. It’s private.
ME
I’m actually glad I did.
PATRICK
So I went on a couple of dates.
ME
Did you sleep with them?
PATRICK
Mind your own business.
ME
No. If you’re the type of person who sleeps around, that’s something you need to disclose. You’ve never been honest about your “history.”
Take a deep breath.
ME
If we’re going to stay together . . .
PATRICK
You’re having my baby . . .
ME
So?
PATRICK
Of course we’re staying together.
ME
I’ll raise the baby by myself before I raise the baby with someone I can’t trust.
PATRICK
No, you bloody won’t.
ME
You looked me in the eye and told me lies. I believed you.
PATRICK
Then you need to get a bullshit filter.
ME
I shouldn’t need a bullshit filter for the father of my child.
PATRICK
And I suppose the father of your other child was perfect, was he?
This is the first time he’s ever mentioned Tom.
ME
No, he wasn’t.
PATRICK
Could have fooled me.
Breathe, Persephone. Breathe.
ME
When you start a relationship, there’s trust there. Basic, human trust. It’s like . . .
Pull up, Persephone. He’s not going to understand the Brady Bunch vase analogy. Don’t go there!
ME
. . . a beautiful vase.
But I do. I go there. I actually want to say it’s like Carol Brady’s beautiful vase, but that’s a bridge too far.
PATRICK
A vase?
ME
Yes. A vase. And when you betray the trust, you smash the vase.
PATRICK
I haven’t betrayed you.
ME
Lying is a betrayal. It breaks the vase.
PATRICK
What are you talking about? Whose vase?
ME
Carol Brady’s actually, but that’s beside the point. The lying breaks the vase and then you try to stick it back together with glue or tape or whatever, but it will never be one hundred percent what it was. It will always have a weak spot because you’ve broken it.
PATRICK
What?
ME
Don’t break my vase, Patrick. Just be honest.
PATRICK
Sometimes I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m going to Darren’s.
Patrick storms out and I hear the silky oak replica door with stained glass kookaburra inlay slam.
I seem to be developing a pattern. The pattern of getting into a relationship with a man who has a deck of cards under the table. I want a man who can be honest. Or I want no man at all.
Chapter 28
Two days after amniocentesis. My house.
“Painful as it may be, a significant emotional event can be the catalyst for choosing a direction that serves us – and those around us – more effectively.” Louisa May Alcott.
ME
There’s no way I’m having a termination!
SISTER
You could book yourself in, have it done, and move on with your life. What’s the biggie?
I take the phone away from my ear for a moment. I don’t want her to hear that I’m fuming. Sometimes her advice is so out there that I wonder if I’m consulting her to get confirmation of what NOT to do.
ME
I could never do that. I’m not judging people who could.
SISTER
Sounds like you are.
ME
I’m not. I just know it’s not part of who I am.
SISTER
It could be. The doctor suggested it, the obstetrician/
ME
/NO. Jesus, I’ve met some of those cool, young Gen Y women who don’t think twice about it. It’s a form of birth control for them.
SISTER
Who are you calling Gen Y?
ME
What do you mean?
SISTER
I’ve had an abortion. I’m not Gen Y.
ME
You have?
SISTER
Yep.
ME
When?
SISTER
None of your bloody business. If you think he’s dodgy, dump him. Get rid of the baby if you want and move on with your life.
ME
I’m keeping the baby, no matter what.
SISTER
What if it’s got something wrong with it?
ME
It didn’t cross the placenta. The baby will be fine. And even if it isn’t, I’m still keeping it.
SISTER
It’s the boyfriend you’re thinking about terminating then?
ME
I wouldn’t put it quite like that.
SISTER
Harden up. So Patrick’s got a history. Big deal.
ME
That’s what he said.
SISTER
Have you talked to him since he stormed off?
ME
He’s been phoning, but I’m not ready.
SISTER
Look, princess, I’ve lost count of the number of people I’ve slept with. Does that make me a bad person?
ME
No, but you don’t lie about it. You’re up front.
SISTER
Not always. I’d be prepared to lie if I knew telling the truth would cost me the thing I wanted most.
Pause.
ME
Really?
SISTER
Of course. Patrick loves you. It’s as obvious as dog’s balls, Pers. And he’s probably just in the habit of hiding shit about his life. Once a Catholic . . .
ME
He hasn’t been to church for years.
SISTER
He’s a deathbed Catholic. They all are. He’s ashamed of himself.
ME
I don’t want him to be ashamed, I just want him to be honest. I know I said I’d raise the baby by myself, but I don’t want to unless I absolutely have to. I believe in marriage.
SISTER
Fuck, you’re conservative. Do you vote Liberal?
ME
No.
SISTER
Thank God for small mercies.
Pause.
SISTER
Look. He’s fessed up that he has a history. Be grateful that it’s out in the open. Now you know what you’re dealing with you can just get on with it.
ME
It’s not right. There’s got to be more. There’s something . . . I don’t know. I just have a feeling . . .
SISTER
You and your bloody feelings. One minute you’re Mother Teresa, swearing to love the sick and injured no matter what and the next minute you’re not sure about the so-called love of your life because you’ve got a feeling.
ME
He’s not the love of my life.
SISTER
Big statement.
I thought Tom was the love of my life. Look how that turned out. I have no confidence in my choices anymore.
ME
How can the love of my life be a man with a history as long as my arm?
SISTER
Stranger things have happened.
ME
I don’t know yet.
SISTER
And if you dump him, you’ll never find out.
I start to cry. I’m a bundle of tears, hormones, mixed up feelings, thoughts of brain calcification, girls called Mirandaaaahhhaaaaah and possible limb deformity. The baby, not Mirandaaaaaaaaah.
SISTER
So he was dating other women the week he dated you. And the week before that. And he probably shagged all of them and he didn’t disclose that at the beginning of your relationship. Big deal. It didn’t mean anything. That’s why he didn’t disclose it.
ME
It meant something to me. It meant . . .
A big gulp and an even bigger tear spills down my face.
ME
It meant I wasn’t special.
The big Stanislavskian truth. What I liked about Patrick from the beginning was that he made me feel special. He cooked for me and sang songs for me and drew love hearts around my name. Now the reality of Mirandaaaahhhh et al has taken it away.
SISTER
Sweetheart, I need to give you a little reality check here. Weren’t you pissed as a newt and shagging some bloke who wore a bandana the week before you hooked up with Patrick?
ME
I didn’t shag him.
SISTER
Really?
ME
He had a bronchial attack and he had to leave. Anyway, I told Patrick about that.
SISTER
It’s still considered a hook-up. You’re being a hypocrite.
ME
No, I’m not. I disclosed it. He didn’t.
SISTER
Oh, well. It’d be lovely if people disclosed all the things they were supposed to, but they don’t. It’s not an application for an insurance policy, you know. You’re not required to sign a bloody duty of disclosure statement.
ME
You should be.
SISTER
It’s a relationship. They’re messy.
ME
I hate mess.
SISTER
I don’t quite know how to put this, Pers, but you’re sounding a bit like you’re in kindergarten. I think you can’t understand Patrick’s behaviour because you have nothing to disclose. I mean, you barely have a sexual past.
ME
I’ve slept with six and a half people.
SISTER
Bandana Bloke was the half?
ME
Yes, and I think six and a half people is enough.
SISTER
People? You mean there were some women in there?
ME
Don’t be ridiculous.
SISTER
Six is nothing to write home about.
ME
And a half. I think it’s a lot.
SISTER
My point exactly. Welcome to the real world, Anne of Green Gables.
ME
He had a love heart around their names. I thought the love heart was only for me.
SISTER
Kindergarten. The really important thing here is not that he lied or that Mirandaaaahhhh had a love heart. The really important thing is—how do you feel about this guy?
She’s managed to get to the heart of the problem.
ME
I don’t know.
SISTER
There’s the real issue.
ME
The more he reveals to me, the more I’m not sure.
SISTER
You want an illusion. That’s tough. For me it wouldn’t be an issue if he’d shagged the entire national women’s netball team. For you . . . it might be something you just can’t get past. And that’s fine.
ME
Is it?
SISTER
Of course.
ME
Children from two different fathers? I feel like such a bogan.
SISTER
Sweetheart, bogans are those rugby league players who celebrate their grand final wins by taking a shit in a pot plant at a posh hotel and glassing their girlfriends. You are not a bogan. Stop judging yourself and everybody else. Take it easy. Give yourself time. And termination could still be an option.
ME
No, it couldn’t.
I hang up. She had me until she made that last statement.
I gingerly make my way to the kitchen to prepare a soothing, if flavourless, cup of chamomile tea. I put the wilted chamomile flowers in the small, green tea pot and wait for the kettle to boil. I’m out of the danger zone for the amniocentesis, but I’m still wiped out from the chicken pox. I need to rest.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, I feel so alone. Alone Again, Naturally. Gilbert O’Sullivan’s suicide ballad pops into my head. Then I remind myself I’m not alone. I’ve got my bun in my oven keeping me company and I want to get it together for this little being. But the Everest I need to climb overwhelms me. The issues that need to be confronted, the conversations that need to be had, the tolerance that needs to be found. Oh well, if you’re going to eat an elephant, Persephone, you need to cut it up into small pieces. And with the thought of eating an elephant comes the first of many trips to deposit my breakfast in the toilet bowl. God, I hate morning sickness!
As I lean over the toilet bowl, my sister’s words ring in my ears—how do you feel about this guy? Mixed. That’s how I feel. This certainly isn’t a fairy tale romance. Where the hell is Prince Charming? But who was this idealised man anyway? The man every little girl (well, every little girl in my suburb) dreamt of marrying? I’ve certainly never met him. I thought fairy tales tapped into the deep truth within the human psyche. That they came from the well of universal spirit or some other “Women Who Run With The Wolves” concept.
Well, if they’ve tapped into the collective psyche and come up with modern man, then I want my money back. Where are the men who are brave, courageous, strong, and willing to scale the castle walls to rescue their princess within the turret? Every man I’ve ever met got distracted by the whores and wine along the way, and left the poor old princess to perish. I want the original prince, not the modern manifestation of the fairy tale. Yeah, yeah, dream on, Cinderella.
Another deep retch from my gut spills into the toilet bowl.
I’m an educated, attractive (when I’m not racked by pre-menstrual insecurity) woman who studied one or two feminism subjects as an elective at Uni. So please tell me why it is that I couldn’t choose a decent partner if my Naomi Wolf-infused life depended on it. I even wrote a list before choosing this current partner. I somehow thought the list would prove to be my emotional flak jacket–pr
otecting me from the bad, lust-influenced decision-making processes. It included gems like “someone I can be myself around” (I forgot to stipulate my “best” self), “someone who likes me” (I left out the bit about “all of me”), “a good communicator” (forgot to include “honest” in that one), “similar interests” (should have said “other than creating shit relationships that go nowhere”) and “someone who’s hot” (forgot to specify that I was talking about attractiveness and not a propensity for sweaty armpits). See, it’s the whole Louise Hay, self-help guru thing. You need to be very specific about what you are intending to manifest, or the affirmations you’re employing will sneak up and bite you on the Dalai Lama.
As I wipe my mouth, flush the toilet and drag my sorry arse back to what is now a tepid pot of chamomile tea, I realise that I don’t know much . . . but I know I love you . . . oh God! I’ve replaced Gilbert O’Sullivan with Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt! Get out of my head! What I meant to say was: I don’t know much, but I do know that I need to focus on health and relaxation and nutrition and grow a bonny baby. In the meantime, I just need to ride the wave of whatever this relationship is and see where it takes me. One breath at a time, Persephone. One breath at a time.
Chapter 29
A couple of weeks later. Dinnertime. My house.
“Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm.” Abraham Lincoln.
I’m feeling much better. My scabs are almost completely gone. Scabs. I’ve become a woman who has scabs. Life has changed so much. The doctor informed me that I’ll have a few pockmarks. Oh well, it’s not like I’m a supermodel who needs to sustain a career with Victoria’s Secret. Small mercies. But most importantly, the amniosentisis results revealed that the chickenpox had not crossed the placenta. The baby is in the clear and seems to have weathered the storm beautifully. He or she is hanging in there and doing well. If the little thing can live through this, then he or she is going to be a feisty little fighter.
I’ve decided to get on with it as far as Patrick is concerned. When I finally returned his numerous calls, he had his tail firmly between his legs and admitted that perhaps he’d been too vague about his sexual past. Since then he has reassured me it was now all out in the open and we can just move on. We’re back on track. I’ve even decided that Patrick can stay over while Jack’s in the house. We’re becoming quite the little family. That’s a relief, because this pregnancy is ticking by quickly and there is so much to do.
