My Bed is a Blackhole

by Hadley Wickham

  A tap on my shoulder broke off the stare-off with my textbook; it had won. I’d not absorbed one thing and looking at the heading saw “Health Enhancing Behaviour” written.

  ‘Interesting?’ the dulcet voice asked me, and I looked up.

  ‘Oh yeah, it’s fascinating,’ I lied as I picked up my bag and stood up.

  The voice belonged to Alison Varcell, sorry Dr Alison Varcell. She was fifty-two, fifty-three next month in April and I’d known her for the past five years of my life. In all that time she had remained disconcertingly familiar. She was a slight woman with a silver-grey pixie cut that occasionally carried too much volume at the top, which made it look like the nest of a small animal. Alison reminded me of a mouse; she had a tiny delicate nose which perfectly complimented her gently curved cheekbones and a kind yet sincere face. She was very pretty, even considering her age and I could only guess how stunning she’d been when she was younger. Alison didn’t wait for me as I hastily shoved my book back into my bag, not bothering to ensure I hadn’t crushed my sandwich in the process. It was silly but I still felt the need to impress Alison despite the fact that out of everyone in my life she saw me the clearest. I walked quickly to catch up and followed Alison through her office door, the brass plate on the front catching the light cast by the gentle fluorescent globe above us.

  “Doctor Alison Varcell, Clinical Psychologist.”

  Oh sorry, did I forget to mention that?

  I can’t explain why I kept the fact I was in therapy a secret from my friends, well at least from my friends at uni. I’d been seeing Alison since I was fifteen, and at first I’d had no problem in telling Mel and Josie about her – the Blackhole hadn’t enforced my secrecy then. However as time moved on and the therapy continued it wasn’t something I could causally mention. When you’re in therapy for five years you’re either really fucked up or something wasn’t working, in my case I think it was both. I had the option to stop seeing Alison when I turned eighteen; after my birthday she’d told me I was no longer obliged as I was now of legal age and an “adult”, whatever the fuck that meant. My mother had not been keen on that idea and as a result I continued seeing Alison between 3:30 and 4:30 on Wednesday afternoons, paid for by my parents of course.

  I never wanted therapy. It was my mother’s idea and I think Dad only went along with it because of the comfort it brought her. At first I thought I was fine and perfectly healthy. Ironically it wasn’t until I was in therapy that I had started to need it. I was not going to insult Alison and say she didn’t know about the Blackhole. If anyone in my life was in a position to know about the Blackhole it would be Alison, yet I would never tell her. Our relationship was rather strange; she was perhaps the only person who could help me and yet I lied to her, well not exactly lied, but rather was selective in the truths I told her. I can’t exactly tell when these selective truths started but now that’s all our sessions involved. All I knew is that my sessions with Alison should have been based on honesty, yet they weren’t. See, I couldn’t even do therapy right.

  When you’ve been doing therapy for as long as I have, you know the tricks which allow you to keep all those nasty little secrets hidden whilst still appearing as an open book. I’ll give therapy one credit: it makes you a very good actor. I’m not sure why Alison went along with my game. It was probably because she felt it was a coping technique: allow the crazy person to believe they’re sane, sooner or later they may start to believe it. Recently, however, I’d started to feel like I was living on borrowed time. I’m not sure if I’d been imagining it but Alison’s eyes had begun to falter in their usual empathetic softness and harden, a result no doubt of weariness. There had also been a few occasions when I’d felt her pressing consciousness on my mind. Soon her questions would be forcing themselves into every orifice attempting to drag the answers out of me; they’d be clawing at the walls of my Blackhole. This threat of unfiltered honesty had led me to begin to dread this hour I spent on the left side of Alison’s settee, facing her in an armchair. To compensate, I usually filled the hour with nonthreatening, pre-rehearsed conversation topics which posed absolutely no risk to those thoughts which would put up a fight if I exorcised them. I occasionally think banging my head against a wall would be more efficient, at least that way I’d be burning calories. Today’s session was more banal than usual and revolved around me bitching about Donoghue. I really ought to buy her some chocolates to say thank you.

  ***

  I’ve realised that I hate summer, not exactly logical when you live in Australia. You can always find at least one person down at the beach every day of the year in Fremantle. Right now Port Beach would be heaving with crowds of loud sweaty teenagers changing out of their starch-stiff school uniforms, irritated pensioners, and the odd screaming infant whose parents thought that spending a few hours grilling their little body on the burning sand was the best way to cool them. Though it was only a ten-minute walk home from the bus stop I was already covered in sweat and felt sticky; it wasn’t the heat that got to you, it was the humidity. My lips had started to burn from the salt and, although I knew it would only add to the irritation, I licked them. I shoved my bag back and felt the corner of a textbook dig into my side. I shortened my stride, although it would make my walk home longer it was better than stopping on the side of the road to rearrange the contents of my bag. In all honesty I wanted nothing more than to throw it into traffic, it would certainly make my walk home easier in this godforsaken heat. The thought wasn’t meant to be taken seriously, yet I found myself tightening my grip on my shoulder strap. The heat and sun were responsible for my angry thoughts of bag throwing. It was surprising as I wasn’t typically an angry person. Summer made it harder to find some scapegoat on which I could blame my perennial gloom. When the sun is glowing and the clouds appear as faint brush strokes of an absent-minded artist the day itself seemed to ask the question, “Why are you unhappy?” Turning off the dizzying main road, which had begun to glimmer as the heat rose off the boiling tarmac, and beginning the final hike up the hill home I noticed Dad’s car parked on the road with the trailer attached. The pile of rubbish which had lain dormant behind our shed for months rested in the trailer bed and Dad was tying a tarp over the top. When he caught sight of me he wiped his forehead and lips on his sweat-dampened T-shirt.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, nodding in my direction.

  ‘Hi,’ I returned, drawing up beside him and pulling my shoulder strap higher onto the bridge of my collarbone. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Going to the tip, what does it look like?’ Dad didn’t even look up from the knot he was tying.

  ‘Ah, I can see that,’ I replied. ‘I mean why are you going now? Aren’t you hot out here?’

  Dad sighed heavily and I got the feeling that either the heat or my question had caused it. ‘Peter’s coming home.’ His breathing was laboured as he pulled the rope taut.

  Peter.

  ‘Peter? Peter’s coming home? To visit? Or to stay?’ I asked, and the heat which had previously lulled my conversation now had no effect.

  ‘I don’t know. Ask your mum, she’s inside,’ Dad replied curtly.

  I quickly turned up the driveway and ran up the stairs to the porch, banging the flyscreen door against the wall as I flung it open. I allowed my bag to fall to the floor with a deep thud in the corridor and walked straight down the spinal corridor of our home to find my mother in the guest bedroom, which could have passed as a pull-out for a lifestyle magazine. She was standing on the farthest side of the bed, changing the expensive cotton sheets to ones which were so threadbare they were almost transparent and I had the feeling that Henry had used them last Christmas to make a tent outside. Even Peter didn’t get the Egyptian cotton. They say that family means you always want the best for each other. I disagree: family is when you can treat someone like crap and still expect them to love you for it.

  ‘Hey,’ I said loudly. My mother jumped, p
utting her hand to her heart and yelping like startled animal. Her melodrama infuriated me and I rolled my eyes as she “recovered”.

  ‘Sorry, I thought you were Henry.’ She resumed pulling the sheets off the corners of the mattress.

  ‘Dad says Peter is coming home,’ I stated and my mother paused in her tugging, looking at up me.

  ‘Yes. He told us last night and we managed to get him on a flight home tomorrow.’ Her irritated tone and meaningless explanation did nothing to clear my confusion.

  Peter. My brilliant brother. Peter was two years older than I and although we were siblings we looked nothing alike. Where I was hazy and muddled, Peter was completely clear and refined. He wasn’t stereotypically attractive yet he was handsome. His face appeared to be made of nothing by angles: a pointed chin, razor jawline and high cheekbones. It was his nose that was the most dominating asset. Comparably large to the rest of his face, it balanced out his thin features rather well and added a healthy fullness to his face. His eyes, unlike mine, were the beautiful colour of honey and he was one of those people who actually suited glasses. Peter had dark blond hair which he never had the inclination to grow out and opted to keep the smart side-part he’d had since childhood. The rest of his body was again thin and all angles. He’d inherited narrow shoulders and hips from our mother yet had Dad’s height, which accentuated his lithe frame. Growing up we had been like every other brother and sister. We had fought without hesitation or mercy and taught each other cruelty. Yet in the same way we had taught each other loyalty; even in the faces of our livid parents we would never break and dob on the other. Like every other younger sibling I had worshipped the ground Peter walked on, if not for the fact that he was simply my older brother then for the fact that he was the example of brilliance I could never hope to achieve.

  Peter was incredibly intelligent, he had won a scholarship fresh out of high school to the University of Sydney to study engineering and computer science. Now he had six months left of his undergraduate and had chosen electrical engineering as his specialty. To define him in a stereotype, he was a quintessential intellectual nerd but because he wasn’t bad to look at, girls found him adorable rather than repulsive.

  ‘Why is Peter coming home?’ I asked. Even though it was a simple enough question, my mother’s reaction obviously meant she didn’t hear it as such.

  ‘I really don’t know, okay? He hasn’t told us anything. Forgive me, but all I do is live here,’ she spat. Like that, the door I opened every morning in the hope it would lead to a closer relationship with my mother slammed shut in my face. I stood there, in front of the metaphorically closed door not quite knowing what to do with myself. My mother picked up a sheet that better resembled a tissue and threw one side across the bed.

  ‘Are you going to help?’ she asked.

  I’d obviously entered the lion’s den and meekly copied my mother to the best of my ability as she shoved the sheets under the heavy mattress. My mother’s mood thankfully meant she was completely ignorant to everyone other than herself and consequently she neither asked, nor cared about my day at university or my appointment with Alison. Not that I would have minded her asking, I had plenty of rehearsed scenario’s which would perfectly satisfy her faux maternal interest. The silence that had managed to slip into the room unnoticed behind me suddenly became quite apparent yet it was a more welcome presence than that of my mother. Attempting to flatten the folded creases in Peter’s quilt cover made me wonder if his bed, like mine, held a Blackhole. I doubted it but that didn’t stop me from pressing just a little harder in the centre, a part of me entertaining the thought that I may be sucked down into the blackness. I wouldn’t even scream if that did happen. It would be a relief really, proof that the Blackhole wasn’t just my problem and didn’t belong in my bed. Yet there was no Blackhole, just the small dent of my handprint in the cool, crisp cotton, which my mother quickly removed by sharply tugging on her side of the sheet. A small pang of hopelessness carved itself into my chest and I felt the overwhelming desire to cry at the unfairness of it all. I was being dramatic, of course. Nothing in my life was unfair. I suppose that’s what made the Blackhole’s completely ostentatious presence all the more unbearable. Existence can be explained by reason, everything must have a reason. My Blackhole didn’t though. It just lay there, like a slick swirling pool of thick choking oil that dragged me down almost reluctantly. A bead of sweat dropped from the bridge of my collarbone and I was jilted out of my reverie by its dark stain spreading on the concrete grey quilt.

  ‘Gosh it’s hot in this room. We’ll have to put the air-con on when Peter’s home.’ My mother’s comment passed right through me, like it was meant for someone else. I nodded my head and stood up straight. She was right, it was hot in here; the heat felt like a cushion pressing itself against you.

  ‘What time will Peter be getting home?’ I asked in a voice detached by tiredness.

  ‘Dad’s taking the day off and picking him up at the airport. Did you want to come to the airport?’ my mother replied.

  ‘No,’ I mumbled. ‘I’ll stay at home; he’ll have his bags taking up space anyway.’

  With that my mother picked up the Egyptian cotton sheets, ceremoniously carrying them out of the room, not even bothering to reply.

  5

  Peter’s return home revealed two things about my parents. Firstly it was abundantly clear that Peter was very much the golden child and any jealousy I bore him because of that fact only made me feel childish. If anyone deserved what Peter had, it was him. Secondly my parents thrived on routine. Peter’s presence undoubtedly disrupted the precious schedule my mother had created for this family; a schedule which I frequently reminded did not apply to her nineteen-year-old daughter. Peter’s entrance yesterday afternoon had been to a house filled with compressed air and unspoken tension. Henry burst with excitement while my mother seethed with stress. My father remained calm and I would be flattered if my quietness had been interpreted likewise. In truth it was I was just too tired to think about my older brother and his returned presence. The anticipation in the household was quite peculiar. To any stranger it would seem that Peter was returning home after being lost in the wilderness for years. In reality Peter was only a four-hour flight away and he’d only been home for Christmas three months ago. Yet I let him bask in this fleeting torrent of excitement and welcome; everyone deserved to know they were missed and more importantly, to know that they were loved.

  ‘Have you missed me?’ Peter asked me.

  I had been the last person to offer Peter a hug. Our mother and Henry had fought for the first embrace but I was uncomfortable with showing any form of affection, especially to those I actually cared about.

  ‘Not really,’ I answered and he gave me a tight smile before pulling me into the expected embrace. He smelt of cheap deodorant, the type that brewed in a choking cloud from boy’s locker rooms and yet I could still detect a hint of sweat which the cloud couldn’t cover. Not that it really mattered. I found it oddly comforting, like his body couldn’t hide the fact that he was hot, tired and perhaps even a little nervous to be surrounded by those who loved him most. Pulling back he kept one arm around my back and tiredly shoved his wire-framed glasses higher up the sharp bridge of his nose. Peter stood awkwardly, his arm holding me as a type of shield, protecting him from the eager energy of our mother and Henry.

  ‘All right, Henry, get on with your homework, you can talk to Peter at dinner.’ With that command from Dad the room deflated. Henry drifted dejectedly back to the dinner table and our mother nervously followed him, glimpsing back once or twice to ensure Peter wasn’t about to run back out the door. I tried to copy their sulk, Henry made it easy with his farcical foot dragging and hung-head, but inwardly I let a surge of relief well up inside me. My relief at escape wasn’t anything Peter should take personally; I didn’t want to be in his company as much as I didn’t want to be in anyone else’s. Peter would
assume his younger sister was hard at work studying in her room and I was not about to shatter that illusion, it was far more admirable than the reality. It felt strange to call some parts of my life “reality”. The word implies something real, that is, having actual existence, being genuine, not imaginary or fictional. My life seemed to be moments of reality, separate windows of a story I didn’t know the end too. Yet these windows didn’t exist together, rather each occupied a separate, mutually exclusive space; my life at university was not a part of my life at home, the two didn’t mix and that was how I retained control. I knew exactly how each story was told, how each person was to play their part. I held the completely naive belief that I knew my friends absolutely; who they were, what they wanted and how they would react in certain situations.