Odd Socks

by Ilsa Evans

  I can hear Bronte grunting loudly as I fling the linen cupboard open, grab another armful of towels and head back towards the lounge-room fast, with them pressed against my chest. But, quick as I am, I’m still too late. There, on my red, pink and pale moss-coloured, low-pile carpet sits a placenta in all its glory. And while they might be perfectly functional bits of anatomy, they are not visually appealing at all. I pull a disgusted face, drop the towels at my feet and decide that I need a drink desperately.

  ‘Well done!’ says Bill encouragingly. ‘All finished now. Hey, Sven, do you want to pass that little lady back over to Mum?’

  Sven obligingly passes the now snugly wrapped baby to her mother, who stretches out her arms impatiently and immediately begins murmuring sweet nothings into her daughter’s ear once more. While she is thus engaged, Sven removes the placenta efficiently and then leans against the stretcher, watching Bill, Bronte and baby bond. I kick the towels over towards the couch and grin wryly at Sven, who grins wryly back. I must say, he is very cute. I perch on the arm of the couch, arrange my dressing-gown and cross my legs gracefully. But when I look up to see his reaction, Sven has turned his back to me and is rummaging around in his bag. He grabs a vial of clear liquid and passes it to his partner who, leaning over, wafts it under Stephen’s nose. The effect is immediate. Letting go of the towels, Stephen sits straight up and, with his fluorescent beanie askew, stares wide-eyed at the assorted gathering.

  ‘Where am I?’ he asks melodramatically while he flutters his hands about. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘You fainted,’ I reply shortly, uncrossing my legs and relaxing. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘Oh, I did? And – Bronte!’ Stephen looks around until his gaze settles on the new mother and her offspring on my not-so-clean carpet. He goes pale again.

  ‘Steady on there!’ Sven drops to one knee and puts a supporting arm around Stephen. ‘Take a few deep breaths and try to relax.’

  ‘Oh, my!’ Stephen breathes rapturously, gazing up with instant adoration at his saviour. ‘The name’s Stephen. That’s spelt with a ‘ph’, of course, not a ‘v’. Stephen Rowe.’

  ‘Sven Parkes.’

  ‘Hell,’ I mutter, rolling my eyes as I watch Stephen recline in Sven’s arms, batting his eyelashes while taking exaggeratedly deep breaths. I wonder if he realises how much he looks like a landed trout.

  ‘Enough.’ Bill obviously doesn’t think much of Stephen’s performance either, judging by the look he sends him. ‘C’mon, Sven, give us a hand.’

  Sven laughs good-naturedly at his partner before grinning down at Stephen and slowly releasing him. I briefly consider fainting to get some attention but reject the idea because, knowing my luck, Bill would give me mouth-to-mouth. Sven straightens up and, with his partner, pulls the stretcher over next to Bronte. They expertly pull a lever or two and fold it down to floor level.

  ‘Now, young lady, we’re going to lift you and bubs up onto this contraption and whisk you off to hospital so you can get the once-over. Okay?’

  ‘And I’ll follow in my car,’ I say to Bronte as I pass over her tracksuit pants, ‘so I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘There’s no need unless you have to,’ Bill says, glancing at me again and obviously still not all that pleased with what he sees. ‘Your daughter and the bubs will both just be given a check-up and then put straight to bed.’

  ‘Oh. What do you think, Bronte?’

  ‘He’s right, Mum,’ Bronte says, trying to insert her little finger into her daughter’s grasp. ‘Like, I’m sure we’ll be fine. You should just go back to bed and come in later.’

  ‘Much later,’ adds Bill, looking at me as if I’ve been keeping Bronte up needlessly. ‘She needs her rest. And, madam?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You are exposing yourself again.’

  I look down and, sure enough, my left breast has made yet another partial bid for freedom. I readjust my dressing-gown but, because it is so weighted by dampness around the hem, it is difficult to keep it quite as together as usual. Accordingly, I fold my arms across my chest and glare back at Bill.

  ‘Thank you so much for pointing that out,’ I say. ‘So helpful.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he replies sanctimoniously as he follows Sven and the stretcher towards the front door. Stephen jumps up quickly and helpfully rushes ahead to open the door. And then, before I can even give Bronte a kiss, they have lifted the stretcher across the threshold and are wheeling it down the garden path. Stephen, who is still propping the door open, suddenly spots his reflection in the hall mirror and gives a shriek.

  ‘Oh, my lord!’

  ‘You don’t look that bad,’ I reply, distracted by the imminent departure of my daughter and her newborn child. ‘Just like you’ve had a bit of an adventure, that’s all.’

  ‘My dear Teresa . . .’ Stephen tucks tufts of dark hair fastidiously under his beanie and then turns this way and that to check the effect. ‘I don’t want to have adventures, schnooks – just adventurers.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Yes, just think of me as a reward. Like the spoils of war. And now –’ Stephen gives his reflection an approving nod before turning to me with a smug smile ‘– I’m off to help the guys because I think I’m in with a chance there. Wish me luck!’

  ‘Good luck!’ I say agreeably, although I bet it’s considered bad etiquette to pick up ambulance guys at the scene. And if it isn’t, it should be. Wrapping my damp dressing-gown around me firmly, I hug myself with both arms because it’s still pitch dark outside and very, very cold. My toes move past freezing towards that numbness that’s the first stage of frostbite. I watch Stephen hurrying up the path to offer his totally unnecessary assistance and wonder if he realises his beanie glows in the dark. What with that, and the fact his black satin pyjamas can hardly be seen, he resembles nothing more than a mobile neon streetlight.

  ‘Bye, Bronte! See you soon!’ I call, waving at my daughter as she is lifted into the back of the ambulance. ‘I’ll be there in a few hours!’

  ‘Bye, Mum.’ Bronte finally takes her attention from the baby long enough to give me a little wave. ‘Oh! Mum – could you try Nick again for me? But don’t tell him!’

  ‘Sure, I’ll just breathe heavily.’ I start hopping up and down in the foyer to warm myself up because it feels like the dampness around the bottom half of my dressing-gown is starting to ice up. Then, as soon as the rear door of the ambulance is closed securely and Bronte is no longer in sight, I shut my door and lean against it. There’s a lump in my throat that was not caused by the cold outside. I delivered a baby! I delivered a baby! And not just any baby either. I delivered my very own gran . . . grand . . . well, my daughter’s baby! I don’t think I’m ready for the ‘g’ word quite yet.

  I’m also not ready to go to bed. Adrenalin is coursing through my body and I feel way too hyped up to sleep. In fact, I wish I had someone here I could talk to, to discuss what just happened and to share the miracle with. Apart from Nick, who, given the fact that he was unreachable in a crisis, deserves to wait a little bit for the news. And apart from Bronte’s father, who is currently cruising around the Solomon Islands and thus doesn’t deserve the news at all. For a brief moment I consider ambushing Stephen before he goes back to bed, but then decide against it. Mainly because I’m fairly sure adrenalin will be coursing through his body too, although for an entirely different reason.

  But I can’t wait to tell everyone at work about this! And if they don’t believe me, well – I’ve got the proof. In fact, I’ve got more proof than I really need and would have vastly preferred it on a couple of towels rather than spread across my pale moss-coloured, low-pile carpet right in front of the couch.

  MONDAY

  0655 hrs

  Languidly I reach out, turn off the jets feeding frothy bubbles of foam into the spa bath and lean back, stretching my legs. I take a deep breath of the jasmine-scented air and then smile with sheer pleasure. Because there’s plenty to smile about
. I’ve got a lovely home, helpful neighbours, a loving family, a daughter I get along with very well (I’m going to ignore that little outburst earlier, on the grounds she was in extreme pain), great friends, fun boyfriend, reliable job, and now, in addition to all this, I’ve personally delivered the next generation! I start humming ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes’, simply because it feels appropriate, and reflect on the fact that, apart from my lounge-room carpet, life is totally under control and I’m coasting along pretty damn well. One hundred percent content – satisfaction guaranteed.

  I punch my fist in the air and let out a loud ‘yee hah!’ before taking a deep breath and submerging myself beneath the foamy water while I slowly count how long I can stay under without resurfacing. One, and two, and three, and four . . . I manage to get to sixty-nine, not quite my all-time record, before I’ve got to emerge and take a big, gulping breath. Then I stretch out again while snowy froth settles cocoon-like around me, and I scoop it up neatly before it can drip off the edge and onto the floor.

  After everyone left, I spent quite some time staring at the birthing area and deciding what to do about the stains. Finally, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I’d probably do more harm than good if I attempted to clean it, so I laid some of the unused towels across to soak up the excess moisture and then left it. I’ll ring some professional carpet cleaners in a couple of hours and get them over here a.s.a.p.

  Then I gave myself a quick wash and shoved my dressing-gown into the bin before, with both breasts on full display, I crawled into bed and tried valiantly to get back to sleep. But it wasn’t any good. As I’d suspected, I was much too high to sleep. Instead I just tossed and turned as I replayed the morning’s events over and over. I finally gave up the effort just as I came to the conclusion I was a damn hero, despite that sanctimonious pillock of an ambulance man. So, instead of trying to sleep, I made myself a strong cup of hero coffee laced with a liberal amount of hero rum and ran myself a hero bath. And here I am, fully submerged and happily counting life’s little blessings.

  I sigh contentedly and rearrange myself more comfortably. Like a surfacing submarine, my left breast immediately pops up out of the foam. I give it a disdainful look because this particular breast appears to be misbehaving on a regular basis today. And, if it keeps it up, it’ll get the chop – literally. Because, for quite some time now, I’ve been seriously considering a breast reduction not just for my left breast, but also for the right.

  I’m rather well endowed – and that’s putting it mildly. And over two decades of being ogled, and whistled at, and having to listen to the same stupid tit-jokes from dorks who think they are thigh-slappingly hysterical (and, to add insult to injury – or vice versa – it’s usually my thigh they’re slapping) is over two decades too long. Then there’s the problem with buying clothes – as if being nearly six foot tall isn’t bad enough! And the backache from the uneven weight distribution – I adjust myself in the bath as I think of this and stare down at the offending glands. Then I pick up the soap from the side of the bath and balance it on my recalcitrant left breast – it immediately slithers off and disappears beneath the bubbles with a hollow plop. Yep, totally useless.

  I dismiss the irritation of overendowment momentarily as I go back to staring at the ceiling and smiling happily. How can one person have so many blessings? Some people might say I’m tempting fate by counting my blessings, but what’s the point of being blessed if you can’t feel smug about it? Besides, it’s all a matter of control. If you have your life under control, the chances of things going wrong are reduced dramatically.

  After I’ve finished in here I’ll have another coffee while I make a few phone calls. First, the library to ask for a few days off – perhaps even the whole week: I deserve it. Second, the carpet cleaners. Third, fourth, fifth and maybe sixth, a few select people to let them know the good news. I flick my foot into the air, sending a cascade of froth floating to the ceiling before submerging myself again to rinse the last of the suds out of my hair. Then I pull the plug, step out and grab one of the enormous white bath sheets to dry myself off vigorously.

  These generous towels are capable of wrapping themselves around my body at least twice so, thus clad, I open the door and pad downstairs towards the kitchen to put the kettle on. I left the heat on when I went up to bed earlier, so the unit is toasty warm from head to foot – and so am I. While the kettle is boiling, I run a cloth over the bench-tops and then lean against them, looking out of the kitchen window at the grey dawn and cloudy sky. It looks like another chilly winter day typical of July in Melbourne.

  I live in Ferntree Gully, a leafy and charming outer eastern suburb of Melbourne. Ferntree Gully covers a rather large area and ranges from the truly picturesque, brimming with tree ferns, dales and wildlife, to the basically suburban, which is, well, basically suburban. I live in one of the latter areas but an absence of overabundant greenery is more than made up for by the additional absence of trespassing wildlife, such as possums, which would use my roof as a trampoline and relieve themselves in my driveway. I know this for a fact because I grew up in the picturesque, leafy dale part, and not only was I rudely awakened on many occasions by noisy nocturnal wanderings overhead, but it was also my job to clean the possum crap off the car, driveway and porch. No bloody thanks. My mother still lives in the same house, and so do the critters.

  So a non-leafy area was a definite priority when I bought my unit (which was actually advertised as a town house but as it’s not in town and it’s not a house, I call it a unit) virtually off the drawing board just over a decade ago when I became single again. It’s a two-storey clinker brick dwelling that was terribly luxurious when it was built, and is holding up pretty well – if I say so myself. It has air-conditioning, ducted vacuum and heating, spiral staircase, spa, fireplace, enclosed garden complete with mosaic fountain and cobblestoned barbecue, and every other little mod con you can think of – as well as a few you probably can’t. I own it outright and have done so since the moment I moved in. And I’m fully aware that I was very, very fortunate as far as cheated-on wives go. The thing is that my ex was a well-established dentist. And he was a well-established dentist so riddled with remorse that at the time he would have done almost anything to alleviate his guilt – anything, that is, except keep his fly zipped during working hours.

  The unit is decorated very nicely too. That’s the thing about being mortgage-less – you can spend your money on the fun things, like nice furniture and regular re-decorating splurges. My place is currently done in muted pastels throughout. The laundry, kitchen and adjoining family-cum-meals area are a sunny pale lemon, with white cupboards and trim, and the rest of the ground floor, consisting of a lounge-room, powder-room and an enormous entry foyer (lorded over by the spiral staircase), are painted a light dusky-rose colour that contrasts well with my predominantly white furniture and (formerly) pristine, pale moss-coloured carpet. Upstairs is a landing that leads to the three bedrooms – my room (cream), Bronte’s old room (sky-blue) and one (sage-green) that I’ve turned into a book-lined study, complete with a seldom-used computer.

  The unit is always immaculate – with everything in its place and a place for everything. Because I’m positively allergic to clutter – if my place gets messy or disorganised, it’s like my life is messy and disorganised.

  I switch off the kettle and pour hot water over the coffee in the plunger. The heady aroma quickly permeates the air and I take a deep breath, hoisting my towel back up and readjusting it as I let my breath out. Then I take a cup back upstairs to my bedroom, where I plump myself on my bed and grin happily at the mirror. It grins happily back.

  I lean over to put my coffee down on the bedside chest and promptly lose my towel again. Instead of readjusting it this time, I stand up and frowningly examine myself in the mirror. I turn first one way and then the other. The trouble is that in my daughter I’ve got a constant reminder of how I used to look twenty years ago – and someti
mes I’d prefer to forget.

  However, even if I say so myself, I’m not too bad for forty-one. Shoulderblade-length blonde hair, largish blue eyes, pale skin, not a bad figure, long legs, nice butt . . . nice butt? It suddenly occurs to me that, even though I’m standing front on, I can see some of my butt. And I’m pretty sure I haven’t always been able to do that. I twist around a tad to check my butt is still where it’s supposed to be, then bend over and peer between my legs. Sure enough, I can see the bottom end of my bottom end. I straighten up and check out the front view once more before deciding to ignore this visible sign of gravity at work. Perhaps I can get something done about the butt bit when I fix the boob bit. I narrow my eyes threateningly at each appendage before turning away.

  Naked, I wander into the walk-in wardrobe and look thoughtfully at the neat row of clothing suspended before me. What I need is appropriate winter wear that reflects the festive nature of this particular day. Eventually I choose a pair of khaki cargo pants, a snug white rollneck jumper, and sneakers. The festive touch is achieved by the addition of a pair of dangly gold earrings. Fully dressed, I walk back over to the mirror and check out the effect. Not bad – casual yet compelling. And, now that it is firmly held in place, I can barely see my rear end at all. I head into the ensuite to brush my teeth, blow-dry my hair and throw on a little foundation.

  While I’m in there, I rinse down the remains of this morning’s bubbles in the spa bath, fish out the soap and straighten up the shampoos lined along the edge. Then I strip my bed and remake it with clean sheets. This accomplished, I grab the dirty sheets and use them to wipe the coffee ring under my cup before taking them, and my coffee, downstairs, where I deposit the sheets in the washing machine and the coffee in the microwave. While it’s heating up, I grab a pen, write a list of plans for the day and then fasten the completed list on the fridge behind a magnet of a bejewelled Tutankhamen. I stand back to examine it.