Head Over Heels

by Felicity Price

  The next morning, he lay there weakly, refusing even boiled water.

  ‘I don’t seem to be able to keep anything down,’ he said feebly. I felt his forehead. He didn’t have a fever, but if he stopped taking in fluids, I realised he would get a lot worse.

  ‘Listen, I’m going to take you to the doctor. You’ll get dehydrated if this goes on much longer. And there must be something they can do.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it. The doctor on the ship said it just had to run its course.’

  ‘Well, it’s run its course, and now it’s doing a second lap.’

  ‘But I hate going to the doctor. I’m not that sick.’

  ‘No, but you will be if you don’t go.’ I stood over him and folded my arms. ‘I’m going to see that you do.’

  ‘I like it when you get stroppy with me,’ he said, mustering a faint smile. ‘But I don’t think I’ve got the strength to get up and go.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what you can do when I’m prodding you in the rear.’

  It took an awful lot of persuading and pushing, but I finally got him down to the after-hours surgery, where we had to wait for an eternity to be seen. I went in with him; in his enfeebled state, I doubted he’d take much in.

  The doctor thought Simon had a type of of gastroenteritis that tends to recur. It was especially prevalent in Asia and the Middle East, the doctor said, and eastern Turkey counted in that geographic spread. ‘It could have been something he ate that wasn’t cooked properly, it could have been the water, or it could have been contact with someone else who had it. We’ll never know now.’

  He gave Simon a little plastic pottle for a stool sample and a form for blood tests, as well as a prescription for something to replace all the fluids and nutrients he’d lost. Then charged an astronomical amount of money for his fifteen-minute consultation.

  I helped Simon, still reeling from the hefty bill, out to the car and took him to his place. No sooner had he walked through the front door than his daughter Drew met us in the hallway, laden with her riding gear, complaining loudly that Simon was late and she’d missed her first two-day event.

  ‘I’m sorry, Drew, I forgot. I’ve still got that tummy bug. Penny took me to the doctor’s and there was quite a wait.’

  If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under. She’d missed her horse show because I’d wanted to save her father from an early death — clearly it was my fault!

  ‘If we left now, we might still get there for part of it,’ Simon said.

  ‘There’s no point,’ she said, throwing her riding gear in a pile on the floor. ‘You can’t compete if you haven’t registered in time.’

  ‘But surely they’d let us register late under the circumstances?’

  ‘Nope. No way. They wouldn’t let Leanne do it, even though the car engine blew up on the way to the grounds. They’re not likely to make an exception for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t think straight his morning, I felt so rotten.’

  ‘You didn’t even answer your phone,’ she whined. ‘I’ve been texting and phoning you all morning.

  ‘Damn! I had it turned off overnight. I must have forgotten to turn it on again.’ He thrust his hands in his pockets — no phone. ‘Did you see it this morning Penny? I can’t find it now.’

  ‘No,’ I said, wishing I could disappear.

  ‘I know. I left it on your dining table.’

  ‘Great,’ Drew said between gritted teeth. ‘You stay out all night with her and forget to come home in time to take me to the two-dayer. And, to top it off, you leave your phone at her place so nobody can get hold of you.’ She turned to me, eyes narrowed, a look of intense dislike marring her usually attractive face. ‘Well thank you very much, Mrs Rushmore. You’ve managed to ruin my chances for a place in the regionals.’

  ‘Drew, I think that’s …’ Simon flapped his hands ineffectually, unable to cope with the mounting tension.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said, backing towards the front door to make my escape. ‘Drew’s upset, and quite understandably so. I’m sorry we’re so late. But I doubt your father could have taken you anyway. He’s really unwell.’

  Drew wasn’t buying it. ‘He looks perfectly fine to me. And he was clearly well enough last night to stay with you. If you’d let him come home, this never would have happened.’

  ‘Drew, that’s not true. I had to go to the doctor.’

  But she didn’t hear him. She’d flounced out the back door, riding hat and crop in hand.

  ‘Lord, Penny, that was a bit much. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what’s got into her. Something must have happened. She’s not usually that rude.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll cope.’

  He apologised at least two more times as he followed me out to the car and said goodbye.

  ‘I won’t kiss you. You might catch something.’

  I tried to shrug it off on the way home by turning up the stereo real loud and singing along even louder, but her attack on me seemed to have hit home, for some stupid reason.

  I took myself out into the garden, which usually helps calm me down, and was still doing a small seethe into the potted petunias when the phone rang. Adam brought it out to me, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. He handed it to me and grunted something unintelligible. It was Simon.

  ‘You’ll never guess what that silly girl was really in a state about,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Her mother has just had a facelift and bumlift and Drew’s furious about how much it cost. She said her mother could have used the money to buy a cheap Land Cruiser or something so she could tow the damn horsefloat herself and not have to wait around for me!’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ I didn’t think this excused her attack on me, but I wasn’t going to be picky. ‘How old is Myra? She’s probably the same age as me.’

  ‘I can’t remember exactly,’ Simon said vaguely.

  ‘You mean she’s younger? That really makes me feel great. I’d better start saving — sounds like I might have a bit of competition.’

  ‘God no,’ Simon snorted. ‘I wouldn’t want Myra back even if she looked like Kate Winslet.’

  ‘Well, that’s a comfort.’

  ‘Drew says Myra’s all black and blue at the moment but she can see her mother is going to look years younger when it fades. She said you should give it a try.’

  ‘Did she now? How sweet.’ I couldn’t help the sarcasm.

  ‘Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m such a klutz. Sorry, Penny. I … er …’

  ‘That’s okay, Simon, men aren’t known for their sensitivity.’

  ‘I know. They tell me the only blokes who are sensitive have boyfriends already!’

  I laughed, despite myself.

  But that didn’t stop me festering quietly about facelifts and what a difference a few thousand bucks could make to a girl’s appearance. You know what they say: the bigger the surgeon’s bill, the younger you look.

  I tried to recall the story Fran had told us at one of our Philly meetings about some woman who had Botox injections to impress her toyboy but when she saw him again, she had started to drool out the side of her mouth.

  ‘Her face was frozen,’ Fran had laughed. ‘She made keeping a stiff upper lip into an art form!’

  But even the memory of Fran’s funny story didn’t cheer me. I never felt more in need of a Philly meeting than now. Everything seemed to be crumbling around me.

  The poor petunias got quite a beating. And that was nothing compared to how I treated the weeds in the herb garden.

  Chapter 27

  Simon cried off our movie that evening, claiming his tummy was still playing up. He was scared of going anywhere in case he started throwing up again, he said, and he wasn’t even up to a night in front of the telly with me. ‘I’m probably highly contagious,’ he added.

  I hoped his aversion to me hadn’t developed after comparing Myra’s rejuvenated visage to mine, w
hich looked as if had been traipsed over by a whole flock of crows with oversized feet. But instead of grinding my teeth and getting in a knot about it, I devoted my energies to getting hold of Pam to see how her daughter Millie was getting along.

  ‘Millie’s okay,’ she said, sounding a little defensive. ‘Why do you ask?’

  I confided Charlotte’s predicament, though not who the father was.

  ‘If I could turn back the clock, I’d do everything in my power to stop her having it,’ Pam said with some vehemence. ‘Honestly, it’s been a disaster. I knew at the time it wasn’t right, but I thought they’d pull through. Besides, Millie’s a determined young woman. She’s used to going out and getting what she wants and she wanted the big white wedding and the baby. But you forget how demanding a three-month-old baby can be. Especially when you’re on your own.’

  ‘But Millie’s married, isn’t she?’

  ‘She was. But the boy was too young. Too immature. He couldn’t cope with the lack of money when they were down to one income — and not a very good income at that — and the baby crying, and Millie getting down. He left just a few days ago. And I can tell he’s not going to come back.’

  ‘How’s Millie taking it?’

  ‘She tries to put on a brave face when I’m there, but she’s not really coping. I feel so bad. If only I’d persuaded her not to have it.’

  ‘Charlotte’s determined to go through with it too. I think she sees the baby as giving her a hold over the father. But he doesn’t want to have anything to do with her or the baby.’

  ‘Maybe I can help? If she went to see Millie she’d get to see the other side of the story.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that. Would you do that? Would Millie see her?’

  ‘I think so. I’ll ask.’

  Pam promised to get back to me before the morning and, true to her word, phoned back late that night with Millie’s agreement, address and phone number.

  ‘She’ll probably spend the whole morning making the flat spick and span and putting little Sophie in her best clothes. It might do them both some good!’ Pam laughed.

  Charlotte protested long and loud about being dragged off to some grotty part of town to see someone she didn’t know with a baby she didn’t want to inspect. It was a visit I’d prefer to forget, but unfortunately I suspected it would be etched in my memory for some time.

  Millie was living in a small flat in a long row of single-storey brick units in a part of town I have to confess I’d never been to before. The front door opened right into the cramped lounge and adjoining kitchen. Behind it was a bedroom just big enough for a double bed, and next to that a bathroom. A cheap fan heater was struggling to keep the room warm.

  Millie had done her best to brighten up the place with a colourful mobile and a cheerful alphabet frieze on the wall. But the dingy furniture, washing draped in the corner, the faint whiff of damp carpet mixed with Johnsons baby powder, and baby paraphernalia piled everywhere overwhelmed the small space, making me feel like escaping the minute I walked in.

  Charlotte, however, only had eyes for the baby, gushing over it like a clucky mother and dangling in front of little Sophie’s piercing blue eyes the Pooh bear toy she’d given her. Even I had to admit Sophie was adorable, with a crown of dark hair and the most perfect rosebud mouth. Charlotte and Millie hit it off, being the same age but, as I listened to Millie’s tale of woe, I could see the two of them were worlds apart. Whether those worlds were about to come closer together was, at that very minute, hanging in the balance.

  • • •

  Back in the car, weak tea and gingernut biscuit swirling uncomfortably in my tummy, I tried to untense my shoulders as I turned the ignition and put Rosie into drive. It was such a relief to get out of the cramped, cluttered and stifling environment of Millie’s flat — stifling not just because of the heater blowing hot air across the damp washing, but because of the obviously intense relationship between Millie and her tiny baby.

  Millie had greeted us like long-lost pals and had chatted animatedly, as if we were the first people she’d spoken to all day. Other than the baby, I suspected we were.

  I thought back to when my eldest son, Josh, had been little and I’d been stuck at home all day with no one to talk to. I’d slowly gone mad. When Steve came home every night at six-thirty or seven, dumping his briefcase in the corner and collapsing on the couch in our quaint little cottage (described by the land agent as a handyman’s dream) I’d deluged him with a barrage of words, thoughts and questions I’d been saving up all day until I had another adult to talk to. Poor Millie didn’t even have a Steve to talk to anymore.

  ‘Wasn’t Sophie utterly divine?’ Charlotte cooed as she did up her seat belt. ‘I just love babies!’

  I felt like throwing up. My nineteen-year-old daughter, who had never once in her life exhibited anything more than a quiet disdain for anyone younger than her, and had hitherto looked at babies with an expression akin to revulsion, was gushing over a three-month-old baby. An admittedly cute baby, but a baby nevertheless. I was beginning to wish I’d never suggested the visit, or that Sophie had managed to fill her pants with the typically foul-smelling mess babies produce, or spill baby chuck down the front of Charlotte’s favourite T-shirt. A reality check had not been forthcoming.

  ‘Hormones,’ I sighed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, er … sorry. I must have been thinking out loud.’

  ‘You think I’m clucky because I’m pregnant don’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I admitted. ‘I can’t think why else you’d be talking like that.’

  ‘I’ve always liked babies,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Can’t say I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Well, how would you?’ she huffed. ‘I know heaps of people with babies. Like Ngaire, and Jo, and Carly Moon. You know Carly, she was in my class at school.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Were the others in your class too?’

  ‘No, they’re friends of Peter’s.’

  ‘Oh? I didn’t think you’d be able to meet any of his friends.’

  ‘Friends from university. Just a few. We have to be careful who knows.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, don’t be such a wet blanket. It’ll be fine.

  Honestly.’ She folded her arms determinedly and stared out the window. After a while she said, ‘You know, I really do want to have this baby. I know you were trying to show me how awful it can be on your own. I’m not stupid. But I don’t care. I want to be like Millie, with my own little person to love and look after.’

  I decided to stop protesting. I could see I was on a hiding to nowhere with the adorable Sophie still fresh in Charlotte’s mind. I figured I was the stupid one for taking her there.

  ‘How’s Jacinta been?’ I said to change the subject.

  ‘Fine, I suppose. She reckons she’s blooming, whatever that means.’

  ‘Pregnant women are supposed to be a picture of health in their middle months. Probably sheer relief at getting over the morning sickness.’

  ‘Well then, she’s blooming.’

  ‘That’s good. Did she get over the baked beans phase?’

  ‘Yes, thank God. I thought we were all going to expire from the fumes.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘She’s into chocolate now.’

  ‘Oh?’ I covered a smirk. ‘That’s a bit of a change from lettuce and bean sprouts.’

  I spent Sunday afternoon visiting Mum again — an exercise that was every bit as depressing as visiting Millie that morning. I dropped Dad off at St Joan’s and went in with him to say hi. It was something of a relief to see Mum sitting up in a chair in the residents’ lounge, but while she looked like Mum and was wearing Mum’s clothes, it wasn’t my Mum that was staring unseeingly at me. She might as well have been lying in the foetal position in her bed again, so lifeless were her eyes.

  Dad seemed content to hold her hand and talk to her as if she were listening. But
for once I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I sat there uncomfortably on the periphery, listening to Dad talking about the good old days when they were first married, and once thought I saw a glimmer of recognition lighten her dull expression. She didn’t say anything, but at least she’d stopped making that low, disturbing moan. I felt claustrophobic again, like I’d felt in Millie’s flat, and had to get out of there. I made an excuse and left, promising to send Adam to pick Dad up at the appointed time.

  In need of solace, I phoned Simon on the way home but, untypically, he was self-absorbed, worried about how he was going to go to work the next day when he still felt so dreadful. I was the one consoling him.

  In even greater need of solace, I stopped at a corner dairy and picked up a giant, chocolate-dipped ice cream and licked at it, dripping sticky blobs on my jeans and covering Rosie’s steering wheel with a tacky film. I didn’t care.

  When the going gets tough, the tough get gobbling.

  But the cold comfort of an ice-cream cone lasted just a few moments: it was far too sweet for my far too sour mood. A few licks were all it took then, unashamed of littering, I threw it out the window onto the grassy verge.

  My problems continued to haunt me, however. Charlotte was still pregnant and more determined than ever to keep the baby. Mum was still sliding down the slippery slope to oblivion. Dad was acting weird. Adam was acting even weirder. Simon was a mass of bacteria. And my clients were sinking into mass hysteria. I diverted the car to the gym and cycled my guts out for half an hour non-stop.

  Chapter 28

  ‘Anyone home?’ I called out when I came in the door. No answer. I flung my keys on the bench and dropped my bag by the phone table. I checked the rooms. Nobody downstairs. Nobody on the terrace. Charlotte’s room was empty. Even Adam was out.

  Crash! I heard the dog door swing shut and moments later Tigger flung himself at me, tail wagging furiously, doggy kisses showered on my hand, doggy breath emitting the usual smell of old sardines.