Is This My Beautiful Life?

by Jessica Rowe

  ‘No, I want to make a black forest cake in the sandpit.’

  ‘Okay,’ I replied, defeated.

  While I fashioned cherries and cream out of the grey sand, I wondered why the sight of all this equipment and activity makes me feel so despondent? There were only so many times I could push the swing, stand at the bottom of the hot slide looking enthusiastic, and then stand under the ladder ready to catch any wobbly legs missing their footing as they climbed to the top of the pirate ship. Once was never enough, it was always again, again, again, Mummy. More, Mummy—please, let’s do it again.

  I was dragged from my self-absorbed ponderings by the sound of Allegra’s voice, screaming from the top of the slippery dip.

  At least she was out of the grotty sandpit but I didn’t like what I was hearing from the play equipment.

  ‘Go away, everybody. My slippery dip. I’m not sharing. Go away!’

  It sounded like good advice: all I wanted was to go away and hide while the line of kids waiting to use the slippery dip grew. But my daughter wasn’t budging. Her strong, defiant nature might one day be a trait worth celebrating when she was older, but why couldn’t she be a little easier and more easy going now? Why couldn’t her mum be more patient and content too? Why did I feel like I was no good at this mothering caper?

  ‘Come on, darling, down you get. Look at the other girls and boys, they’re waiting their turn. Come on, time to slide down. Remember, caring is sharing,’ I sang through a fake smile. My words were probably more for the benefit of the expensively clad mother standing smugly near the cubby house than my single-minded daughter. Eventually, I managed to drag Allegra down the slide while keeping mainly upright with Giselle strapped again to my front.

  A sick feeling was starting in my stomach and I knew that our exit from the park was coming, and fast. Was I the only mum who had a child who screams, rants and raves? Ironically, only two hours before a paparazzi photographer had captured a picture of us laughing together. I had my black fifties-style sunnies on, a pink top and denim shorts. Giselle was asleep, nestled into my chest, and Allegra was grinning and looked like the sort of girl who would share. Don’t be fooled by such images; pretty soon it all ends in tears, for everyone.

  ‘Sit in your seat. Let me strap you in.’ I heard the panic rising, my voice thin and shrill. I managed to get Giselle clipped into her baby capsule, but Allegra was kicking the window and screaming so I couldn’t get the three-way clips into the buckle of her car seat. I was sweaty and my fingers were stinging from where my eldest daughter had kicked them, determined not to stay in her car seat.

  ‘Stop it now! Do not kick me! Stop!’ I had totally lost it, bellowing in a she-wolf voice that I had never heard before. The windows of the car were steamed up, with little footprints marking the glass. Finally clipping the buckle in, I sat back in my seat and started to quietly cry. My eldest daughter and I were both railing against the world and the unfairness of it. For Allegra, it was unfair because she had to be strapped into her seat and leave the park. And for her mum, it was unfair because I was being undone by a simple outing to the park.

  I started the engine and cranked up the air conditioning to demist the windows and cool down. My hands were on the steering wheel but we were not going anywhere. Giselle had gone to sleep, oblivious to the hot, melting, messy pile of rage in the car. I would sit there until the screaming and kicking stopped.

  ‘Where are you, Mummy?’ Allegra called.

  ‘Upstairs!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the toilet,’ I called back.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the toilet!’

  ‘I love you, Mummy. I love you, Mummy!’

  Allegra was suddenly bounding on the stairs, her little sister trailing after her. Giselle was shuffling down the stairs on her bottom, she never crawled in the usual way, but managed to move around very efficiently! Her Barbie Mariposa was in one hand while she slid along the smooth floorboards happy to entertain herself. Allegra continued talking as she walked up to me where I was perched on the toilet.

  ‘A wee or a poo?’ she asked.

  ‘A poo.’

  ‘Will it be a long time or a short time?’

  ‘Not too long—just give me a minute.’

  The inquest continued. ‘You’ve got a tampon.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve got your period.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When will I have my period?’ asks my three-and-a-half-year-old.

  ‘When you’re older.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘Ahhh …’

  Lightning fast, Allegra changes tack. ‘Do you know that Daddy says “shut up” and “fuck”?’

  I know what I want to say, but I stay quiet as I dry my hands on the towel.

  ‘How about steak and corn for dinner tonight?’

  ‘Does that mean the smoke alarm will go off again?’ asks Allegra.

  ‘Mmm, not necessarily …’

  Cooking had never been high on my list of talents. To be honest, I was a crap housewife and was still fighting against the machine of routine, folded clothes and having a place for everything.

  ‘Why do we have so much clutter?’ Peter would ask as he tripped over backpacks, shoes and puzzle pieces. ‘I bet other people don’t live like this.’ Even though our long-suffering cleaner, Christina, still came once a week, I couldn’t keep the house tidy. There were explosions of pipe-cleaners, glitter, Barbie shoes, rainbow-striped teddy bears and Strawberry Shortcake dolls scattered in every corner of the house. Hiding under our king-size bed were dusty dummies and plates of green cut-up apple that had shrivelled to look like wrinkled prunes, porous with mould. The dirty dishes would pile up in the sink after the effort of cooking dinner and getting the girls to bed had taken all of my stamina. Those plates could wait, and I knew Peter was good at washing up. He is one of those kind souls who cleans up and wipes the bench tops before the cleaner arrives, so the house wasn’t a total shambles.

  Our study slash junk room door was permanently closed, with a note on it asking Christina not to bother. The room had become a burial ground for files, old toys and boxes that hadn’t been unpacked since we moved in three years before. The cupboard under the stairs was jammed full, and if you opened the door, plastic bags, umbrellas, containers of play dough and Christmas decorations tumbled out. Didn’t other women have piles of stuff everywhere? Surely just folding the clothes was enough effort? Wobbly stacks of pink t-shirts, stripey leggings, tutus, my granny whacker underpants, and Peter’s giant navy polo shirts and extra-large beige shorts remained at the bottom of the stairs.

  Sick of always putting them away, I set myself a challenge: how long would they stay there for? Would they magically transport themselves to the top of the stairs? I was hoping Peter would see them and put them in the drawers. His excuse was that he didn’t know where the girls’ clothes went and it was best to leave it for me. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I do the garbage. That’s my job.’ Ten days was the record time the piles of clothes stayed on the bottom step until I cracked and put them away myself. Huffing and puffing, I crammed them into drawers already bursting with clothes.

  Visiting the immaculate homes of friends left me feeling inadequate. How did they do it? Where did they stuff their mess? Surely I wasn’t the only one living in a permanent state of camouflaged chaos? I reminded myself of the words of Rosa, the South American grandmother who rescued me in the days after I brought Giselle home. She told me that a home was a place that you lived in, not a showroom. But I remained envious of other people’s ability to be organised and tidy. Why couldn’t I be like that too?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The day Mum went missing began much like any other day. I was hurling clothes out of the ‘clean’ laundry basket as I tried to find Allegra’s favourite t-shirt.

  ‘Yes, I know, it’s the one with the black poodle on the front with red bows on the ears. And yes, it’s got long red sleeves. I know you
want to wear it. And yes, Mummy is looking for it.’

  ‘Mummmmmy, I have to wear that top!’

  ‘Oh look, I found it—um, but it looks like there’s some bolognese on it from dinner last night.’

  ‘But I want to wear it!’ Allegra wailed.

  ‘Okay, but we have to get dressed now. Arms up above your head.’

  If I squinted I couldn’t really see the grubby red marks splattered over the front of the t-shirt. However, no amount of squinting stopped me seeing the pyjama pants that remained firmly on her bottom half. Blue and covered in cranes and bulldozers, they were the current clothing favourite on loan from her cousin Elliot. The outfit was finished off with white gumboots dotted with red and green stars.

  ‘Terrific,’ I said.

  ‘Mummy, can I watch a Charlie and Lola now, the one about the guinea pig?’

  ‘What do you say?’ I prompted.

  ‘My royal servant.’

  ‘Excuse me, I am not your royal servant!’ I had to smile though, given I often felt like the domestic help in our house. But it also made me feel guilty that the girls were watching too many Barbie DVDs; those princess, fairy and musketeer Barbies all had royal servants.

  ‘Alright, just one episode.’ Yet again my well-intentioned ‘no television in the mornings’ rule had lasted all of an hour.

  While the telly blared away, I hid the laundry basket in the study. I’d work out whether they were clean or dirty clothes another day, or year. My daughters’ drawers were full of pretty dresses but Allegra insisted that these nice new clothes were too scratchy, itchy, lacy and boring. But I refused to give them away because of the exorbitant price I’d paid for them. And I hoped that Giselle would wear her big sister’s clothes when she grew into them.

  I’m like a magpie—drawn to sparkles, colour and shiny things. I like to stock my nest, and that of my daughters, with as much colour and twinkle as possible. Clothes have a transformative power for me, and I love to put on a different ‘costume’ depending on my mood. It’s my protection, my armour against the day. It’s something my dear husband doesn’t get, nor does he understand my desire to stuff the wardrobe with more floral pants, jumpsuits, boots and sequin dresses.

  ‘How many more Collette Dinnigan dresses do you need?’ Peter would ask.

  I run through my list of justifications. It was on sale. It’s not new, I’ve had it for ages. Oh there’s nothing in the bag, it’s empty. I work hard and I wanted to reward myself. I don’t really have that many frocks. I will have these gowns forever, it’s an investment—the girls will even wear them as vintage clothing one day. Really it’s a bargain, if you think about how much wear the dresses will get.

  Besides, anyone who doesn’t realise a shoe can change your life hasn’t heard of Cinderella!

  On that particular morning I went for a short purple-flowered dress teamed with flat studded ankle boots. It was a look inspired by a photo I saw of supermodel Kate Moss in one of those fun trashy magazines. I was a late adopter of the trend but I wanted to feel a bit hip, even if my life was anything but that at the moment. Given my fashion obsession, it was no surprise that my girls were also attached to their ‘looks’, even if that look said ‘I’ve just rummaged through the charity clothing bin and nobody cares for me, or even brushes my hair’. I didn’t have the energy today to argue, cajole or bribe my daughters with freckles and gummy bears. They looked like a pair of wild waifs but it was not a battle worth fighting, even if the other mums at day care had tidy children and didn’t look sweaty and worn-out when they dropped their kids off.

  ‘Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in,’ I kept telling myself while trying to ignore the tussle over who owned the Little Miss Giggles water bottle. I was about to lose it with both of my little misses, but I tried to remember the calm voice of my counsellor and to repeat those breathing techniques she had suggested. I was also still seeing my psychiatrist but only twice a year to check on my medication. My antidepressants were very useful for keeping myself on an even keel, but strategies like these also helped to stop myself from being overwhelmed by the panic and chaos of the morning. I reminded myself that having knotty hair wouldn’t scar my daughters for life. Or would it? I remembered that Mum used to send us to school with knots, and I still worried too much about what others thought of me. Perhaps that’s because some people remembered my face from television and that made me feel more visible, especially when one of my daughters was having a meltdown in the supermarket because they couldn’t have the supersized Cherry Ripe stacked right in front of them.

  At age two and a half, Giselle was going through her Disney princess phase and her current muse was Rapunzel, the damsel with long, tangle-free hair and a purple polyester gown. Despite the sticky, humid day, my baby girl was very happy to put on this scratchy-looking dress.

  ‘Mumma, the sleeves,’ she said, holding her arms up.

  ‘Perfect, they’re just perfect,’ I replied.

  ‘Nooooo, not long enough. They have to go down to here,’ she said, indicating her fingers.

  ‘They do go down to there. They are long sleeves. It’s a long-sleeved dress. But if you bend your elbow they will creep up a bit,’ I explained.

  ‘They have to be long!’

  ‘They are long,’ I said, trying to sound convincing.

  What was I doing, arguing the merits of the sleeve length of Rapunzel’s costume with a two-and-a-half-year-old girl? I would agree to almost anything to get the girls out the door so I could see Mum before hospital visiting hours were over. But it was like herding cats, although our cats Alfie and Vanessa (Audrey had recently died after a long and happy life!) were more obedient. I was ready for a big strong gin and tonic and a lie down and it was only eight o’clock in the morning. Instead, I focused firmly on holding miss poodle top by the hand while carrying the princess of the not-long-enough sleeves on my hip.

  It was a hot and sweaty day, and it was only getting stickier as I tried to steer my eldest daughter away from the dog poo that she seemed magnetically attracted to on the footpath. We finally arrived at day care.

  Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  ‘Allegra, stop pushing the button. I’m sure the teachers know we’re here,’ I said, kicking the gate open with my boot. As we manoeuvred through the entrance, I realised my dress was feeling a bit tight and uncomfortable. A quick readjustment revealed why: it was caught up in my knickers. I’d just bared my bottom to the world. At least I was wearing my granny whackers, comfy, bottom-covering, man-repelling underpants that had replaced the Simone Péréle lace G-strings I used to regularly buy from the third floor of David Jones. That fine, delicate lingerie was now shoved to the back of my top drawer somewhere, rolled up and forgotten like that part of my life.

  ‘Mummy, have you got my water bottle? Where’s my hat?’ Allegra demanded.

  ‘Um, your hat is in the bottom of your Dora bag. And your water bottle is where it always is, in the side pocket of your bag.’

  Despite all these challenges in coming to terms with being a mother, I had always regarded myself as a five-star daughter. Mum’s latest hospital admission came only eight months after she had last been in the psych ward and hoarding her medication. My days were again dominated with day care drop-off and then daily visits to Mum in the psychiatric hospital. Mum had been going downhill after her latest bipolar episode, and I desperately hoped this most recent spell in hospital would give her doctors a chance to fine-tune her medication, keep an eye on her, and stop her from slipping into that scary, black cave of nothingness. My sisters and I tend to go into paramedic mode when Mum gets sick, but despite our years of experience dealing with Mum’s illness, our ability to handle different situations was still erratic. Even though we had spent far too many hours talking to doctors and hospital administrators over the years, each time Mum disappeared into her mad, bad headspace, I still felt vulnerable and frightened. Just like the little girl I was when she first became sick.

  ‘Hey, aren’t you
that news lady?’ the man behind the coffee counter asked.

  ‘That’s me,’ I smiled while gritting my teeth, thinking, please don’t ask me anything else. ‘Can I have a skim cappuccino, a babycino, and a nice and hot but not too frothy flat white, please?’

  Mum liked her coffee hot. Sometimes a good caffeine fix had been enough to elicit a sliver of a smile from her during hospital visits. I found myself feeling desperately optimistic as I balanced a tray of takeaway coffees in one hand and held Giselle’s hand with the other while we walked towards Mum’s room. Was it a mistake to bring my baby into a place like this? I figured that it was life, both a part of our life now and part of my earlier life. Plus I believed the combination of a coffee and cuddle from both of us might help Mum. I wanted Mum to know how loved she was, and there were two generations of girls who would not give up on her.

  But Mum was not in her room. Her bed was empty and the staff had no idea where she had gone.

  ‘What do you mean she’s not here?’ I said to the nurse on duty.

  ‘Well, she seemed a bit upset this morning when we told her she would be changing rooms. And then when we went to check on her a little later, she wasn’t in her bed,’ the nurse said, sounding as if this type of missing patient scenario was routine.

  ‘Where is she? How could she have just walked out of here and disappeared?’ I asked, trying to keep calm.

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘How can you not know? You are here at the desk. How can she walk past without anybody noticing?’

  ‘I’m sure she will be back soon.’

  ‘And if she’s not?’

  ‘We’ll have to call the police.’

  There had been plenty of times when I had been worried about what Mum might do, but this time I was really scared. I searched her room. Her wallet was there but she had taken her mobile. I grabbed my phone out of my bag and called her, but it went straight through to her voicemail. I waited for the beep and left as calm a message as I could manage. ‘Mummo, it’s me. Remember we were coming to see you this morning? I’ve got coffee. We will wait here for you.’ Then I sent her a text message: Mummo, where are you? I’m here with Giselle. Please let me know you’re okay.