‘I’m going to bed,’ I say. ‘Didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘Hopefully she sleeps through tonight. I’ll just watch some telly for a while.’ Dan kisses me on the forehead and settles down with his dinner in front of the TV.
In bed, I switch on the electric blanket and curl up. In these quiet moments my thoughts roam free, uncensored. Of course Alexander is there. I try to remember his smell, but can’t. It’s been too long, and the bed smells like Dan. He didn’t wait for me, he went on and lived his life.
What will I will tell Ava, when she’s older and thinking about these things? If she falls in love and is too scared to say it out loud, what will I say to her? The answer comes immediately, impulsively, without argument or interrogation. It’s so simple. I’d say to her, ‘Tell him.’
One am and Ava cries. Adrenalin jolts me awake and I’m staggering to her room before I’m fully conscious, and before Dan has even registered what is going on.
I know one thing for certain: there is no separation of her and me. I can’t find a boundary between us. I don’t know where she ends and I begin. I could drown in her and I realise if I do, I’m one step further from him.
MAURICE AND JACQUI
He Said/She Said
Jacqui: This conversation gouges tracks in my brain. It makes my synapses bleed just to think about talking about this again.
Maurice: You and your bloody tracks and synapses. Can’t you speak like a normal human being for once?
Jacqui: Okay, here’s something you might understand. Nothing with you ever changes!
Maurice: I’m an optimist. My glass is always half full.
Jacqui: My eyes are half shut. I’m so bored. Bored with you. Bored with our life, that incidentally was always about you. Never me, never Amily. Bored with this argument. I need to sleep now. Tomorrow we will wake up and pick up where we left off. And next week, and next month. We go in circles. Over and over.
Maurice: Maybe that’s what the celebrant meant…
Jacqui: What? You’re mumbling again.
Maurice: The celebrant. When he gave us the rings and said it symbolised the circular nature of love.
Jacqui: He was an idiot. You are an idiot.
Maurice: He was a good man, may he rest in peace.
Jacqui: He was a pervert. But don’t worry, he’s resting in peace. He got the prime spot on the red velvet club chair. He’s eating grapes that were peeled by Botoxed angels. His toenails are being nibbled by grooming mice who have been starved of cheese for this very purpose. His shoulders are being massaged by gnarly fingered deviants who have been released from hell on temporary visas. His –
Maurice: I want a divorce.
HUNNI
Hermit Crabs
You are different people, depending on who you are with. You know this and you even know when you are self-censoring; you have that awareness. It’s always with family and with work, never when you go for long walks on the beach. They are your three groups and your three personalities: family, the beach and work. You expect it’s the same for everyone but maybe worse for you than others because you are prone to living inside your head. It’s an occupational hazard, for at least one of your jobs. You work two jobs. The one that pays the soul is the sea shell job. The one that – surprisingly – pays the rent is the retail job.
In retail you are paid to agree with anything the customer says, unless they say that they look bad in a dress, or a pair of pants makes their bum look big. In that case, you are paid to lie.
You are aware that the list of things you are agreeing with is getting longer and more disturbing. Last week, a woman came in to buy a dress and complain about her son’s teacher. Or maybe she came in to complain about her son’s teacher, and buy a dress. Either way, she did one and not the other. You found yourself agreeing that teachers are lazy for having days off to write reports. ‘Why should they be given a day off to do their jobs? If I asked for a day off to do my job, I’d be laughed at.’
You found yourself nodding at the women who said that chemists should sell bullets over the counter, made available free of charge to all the nut jobs who need anti-psychotic drugs to ‘save us all the trouble and expense of futile rehabilitation’.
You found yourself agreeing that climate change was ‘hooey’ and the government just wanted to screw more money out of us. This lady bought a six-hundred-dollar sequined gown, made in Italy.
You found yourself wishing for that bullet, for yourself, by the end of the day.
It is hard to find complete shells these days. You have to go further and further out, away from metropolitan beaches, and you have to plan for the tides. The waning of a high tide is the only time worth going now. Or after a storm. You find yourself increasingly drawn to other detritus among the shells and wonder if you can make something of it. You talk to your other boss, the man who owns the pet shop in the mall, and he laughs like you are joking until he realises you are not and then he looks at you deliberately for a long moment before turning to a customer.
He says, ‘Can I help you with anything?’
You decide to try the idea that is forming in your mind. There are fewer shells, anyway. You know that the pet shop owner can import shells, painted with just as much skill as yours are, but he does not. Yet. Maybe this kind of innovation might save your soul-job. Maybe once he sees that it can be beautiful he will change his mind. You found a curl of broken glass the other day. Its edges were smoothed after years at sea and its frosted green skin glowed when held up to the light. You decide that if it had been the neck of the bottle it would have been perfect. You keep your eyes out.
You decide to experiment with shell designs. Mostly people want beach scenes. They assume hermit crabs want to live in shells that look something like their natural habitats. They’re wrong. You have had pet hermit crabs since you were thirteen and know that they have no such scruples. They choose a house because it fits, because it is the right shape for them, right now. Because they can tuck themselves in and out as they please. Not because it is blue like the ocean, yellow like the sand or some combination of the above. You discover, very quickly, that the shells you adorn with diamantes sell like cherries before Christmas. You discover, very quickly, that shells with skulls and crossbones sell – you assume to young boys with pirate obsessions. You discover that floral designs sit, unwanted, for a long time and eventually get handed back for you to ‘rework’. You add diamantes to the stamens. They sell very quickly. It’s not so hard to change people’s views on hermit crab shells, you discover. Now, no one wants ocean pictures. It’s like mobile phone covers: a hermit crab shell is an extension of the owner’s personality. And you can change it. Every time your crab grows, you can change its shell like you are changing your dress. A crab can go from a semi-stormy beach scene (by far the most popular of all beach scenes) to wearing a schooner of beer or a necklace of pearls. Suddenly the possibilities of self-expression are endless. You like this idea.
You start to paint shells for yourself. You line them up on your dresser like some women line up beauty products. You start with three, for your three personalities. The shell you take to the dress shop is painted black; it’s symbolic of the dark void you feel when you are there, the void that makes it easier to lie to your customers. The shell you take to the beach is painted pink, the colour of acceptance and calm. The shell you take when you visit your family is yellow, which you are pleased to learn on The Meaning of Colour dot com means both joy and deception. You wonder if it’s strange that you don’t paint anything other than a solid colour, then you remind yourself that these shells are just for you, and it is okay.
And then you meet someone who you think you might like and you take him home. Occasionally, you find that you self-censor with him. You don’t know where this fits. You do not self-censor all the time, like at work or with family, but there isn’t the same ease that you feel on the beach. He fits somewhere in the middle. You go to The Meaning of Colour dot com and cons
ult the charts, trying to find a colour that fits him. There is no single colour. He’s a little bit red (because there is passion) and he’s a little bit orange (because he has energy that is never quite exhausted). There is brown (because he is stable, earth-like, reliable). You want to add green for harmony and family but you know it is too early. There cannot be harmony when there is self-censoring.
You find yourself self-censoring when he asks about your shells one night.
‘What are these?’
‘Oh, that’s just for work.’
‘For the dress shop? Is it some kind of summer promotion? I hope they pay you for your out-of-hours.’
‘No, not for the dress shop.’
‘What then?’
‘I paint them, for hermit crabs. The pet shop sells them.’
He laughs. Like he’s never met a person who did such a ludicrous and useless thing.
You blush. It’s a different red to the one you normally associate with him. This time it’s shame, not passion.
‘Oh, Hunni, I’m sorry. It’s just…I’ve never thought about who does that stuff. I assumed it was done overseas, you know, in sweatshops. Not here, not in our sweatshop.’
He leans in, suggestively. You thank God he doesn’t wink. You want to tell him to leave, but you let him kiss you.
After that you wonder if his true colour is white: the colour of mourning in eastern cultures. His family came to Australia from Malaysia. With his eyes like rigidly frilled cone fish shells and his laconic Australian drawl, he exists in two worlds. That was why you liked him in the first place. Right now he makes you feel white.
You take your idea to the pet shop owner. Single colour shells. Sold with a colour chart next to the box, so people can select the meaning they want and then the shell they want. Simplicity in this complex, chaotic world.
‘I don’t think it will sell, but you can give it a go. On consignment.’
You agree.
You still haven’t found a nice smooth bottle neck and you think that maybe that’s just a pipe dream. You laugh at your own half-joke. You decide to tell the multi-coloured man. It is a test.
‘I want to paint bottle necks, for the crabs. They’re beautiful when they are worn down by the sea.’
‘Why’d you bother? It’s just junk.’
He has failed the test. You persist; you want him to pass. You think of all his colours: red, orange, brown, white and wonder if you could love someone who has those four colours.
‘Not to me.’
‘Hunni, it’s junk, however you look at it. Why don’t you focus on the dress shop? I bet you could be manager if you tried.’
‘I don’t want to be manager.’
‘No one gets on in this world by painting shells.’
You don’t speak at all. You tuck yourself into your bottle neck.
POPPY
Dear Diary
Dear Diary,
(If you are reading this Jamie, piss off, this is none of your business and if I find out you read this I will tell Tarnya you dream about her every night, moaning her name so loud it wakes up the dog. Go on. Try me. I dare you.)
Today at school Michelle, Naomi, Gemma, Lucy, Kira and me talked about which movies we were going to see in the holidays, and which subjects we would take next year. Gemma is so serious. She’s taking maths 1 & 2, physics, chem and for a lark, biology. She wants to be an engineer. Sounds like my idea of hell, but then I guess my subjects probably sound like hell to her.
Okay. That’s probably enough to have bored Jamie by now. But IF you are still reading this Jamie, this is your last chance. You bloody better piss off. Or the wrath will come down upon thee.
Dear Diary,
At lunch time today Tarnya came up to us and asked about Jamie. She’s a year above us so it’s strange that she would speak to us at all – no one ever speaks to anyone below their year level unless it’s with some evil purpose. She has this stride about her – long, fast steps, like she’s in a hurry and she’s going to mow down anyone in her path. It screams – get outta my way, punk! So naturally, when she walked up to us, we all parted like the Red Sea to make room for her to pass. But she didn’t. She stopped just in front of me and started talking.
‘Are you Poppy, Jamie’s little sister?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Does he have a girlfriend?’
‘How would I know? I’m not his keeper.’
I felt totally badass saying that to Tarnya, but I didn’t like the way she just strode up to me and demanded personal information. Who did she think she was?
‘Well, do you think you could find out?’ she snarled at me.
‘Who’s asking?’ I said.
‘That’s need to know – and you don’t need to know.’
‘No deal,’ I said.
I turned back to the girls and saw their expressions – fear mixed with awe. It made me smile. High school sucks – all these hierarchies and rules about who you are allowed to talk to. I’m over it and I’m not playing anymore.
I heard Tarnya stalk off. Good. She could stew for a while.
Dear Diary,
(Same deal, Jamie. Piss off. Or I will tell Tarnya you have an eye for the boys.)
Today, Tarnya’s friend came up to us. I don’t know her name.
‘So what gives? How come you won’t tell Tarnya if he has a gf?’
‘Why doesn’t she ask him herself? He’s got ears and a mouth. He can talk for himself.’
‘You don’t know anything, do you? You’re such a baby, Poppy.’
‘I’m the baby?’
That really made me laugh – I’m the baby in this scenario?
I might only be fourteen but I am so much older than high school.
The friend strode off, without even half the attitude of Tarnya. Clearly had a long way to go in bitch training.
Dear Diary,
(Piss off Jamie, or I will tell Tarnya you have herpes. Which you caught off the dog. I mean it.)
Well today was one for the books. Jamie walked up to Tarnya at lunchtime. Michelle, Naomi, Gemma, Lucy and I were watching from across the courtyard. Jamie walked straight up to her like he had balls of steel, all macho-like and confident. Chest puffed out, hair slicked back, walking like a giant. I couldn’t hear what was said, of course, but I can guess. Here’s how it would have gone.
‘Hi Tarnya, how’s it going?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Jamie. We’ve got history together.’
Pause.
‘I, ah, I mean the class. With Mr Edleston?’
Beat.
‘So?’
‘So, I was wondering if, you know, you’d like to go see a movie this weekend?’
‘With you?’
‘Yeah, with me.’
‘I’ve got a boyfriend, doofus. What did you say your name was again? Jamie? I might just tell Nathaniel you’re hitting on me.’
(I don’t know her boyfriend’s name. They say he goes to Saints. I’m sure he’d have to have a tosser name like Nathaniel.)
‘Sorry, I didn’t know… I’ll just leave you alone.’
‘Too fucken right you will,’ Tarnya said with a flick of her hair (this part I saw, from across the courtyard, so I know she did that).
That’s when you turned and walked away, didn’t you Jamie?
So from now on, when I say DON’T READ MY DIARY I mean it. PISS OFF!
JENNIFER AND AVA
Patchwork
Ava’s nappy is leaking. Wiping green-yellow smears from her thighs, back and stomach, I wonder if it’s possible to clench my nose. I shut my eyes against it for a moment and a face appears: tight jaw, shadows like caves above and under his cheek bones, deep set blue eyes hidden by a long blonde fringe. Alexander.
My spirit flickers small, like fireflies in the darkest part of a cave, but I won’t go back there.
I finish the job as Ava hums happily at me. She’s never struggled on the change table the way some kids do. She watches me an
d smiles. Her eyes, brown and large like Dan’s, seek mine. She is greedy for me.
Stuffing the wipes into the plastic bag, I say, ‘There we go!’, and plonk her on the floor. Off she trundles towards the kitchen, making straight for the saucepan drawer. She grabs the lids and starts whacking them together. Harmless, I think, and head for the studio sunroom.
The horizon canvas I’ve been staring at for a week still eludes me entirely. It’s empty, and not in a good way. I can’t find the answers because I don’t even know the right questions.
From the kitchen, Ava cries. Sharp-edged disasters and panic run like arrows through my mind as I bolt back to her.
She stands in front of the fridge, covered in goo, staring at the floor where a dozen eggs have smashed and spread in a viscous muck-pool. The look in her eyes says, ‘I’m sorry, Mumma, I’m sorry,’ but she’s too distraught to do anything but cry. I want to join her, but that would mean surrendering and I may never make it back from there, so I hold on and reach for the paper towels and begin the mop up.
A distant thought occurs to me: comfort her first. But I can’t.
The towels get soaked too fast. I give up and lay them over the mess in a soggy patchwork.
Falling in love with Dan felt like creating a patchwork. He grabbed my attention with his large brown eyes and just the way he looked at me made me trust him. I trusted this part of him, then another part, then another part, until I trusted him entirely. Little moments built security. I didn’t know it then, but security and love are not the same.
LIA, AMOS AND PETE
How to Flirt
Amos’s wife is at the bar. Her short blonde hair with its brown roots, her long tanned limbs and athletic waist are trained on the man in front of her. It’s summer and Lia is dressed in her favourite way – exposed skin showing off her hard work at the gym. Everything about Lia’s body looks familiar to Amos; it is almost like watching himself.
Lia flirts with the man at the bar. She throws her head back and laughs in her deep, raw way that layers joy with sex. She rests a long-fingered hand on the man’s shoulder and lets it linger there while she listens to him speak. She raises her champagne to her lips as he raises his beer to his, and lets her hand slip lower onto his bicep, gripping it a little more tightly now, no longer resting. Lia has perfected an almost clinical flirtation process, but it is her intuition that really makes her good at it.
Plane Tree Drive Page 2
