Odd Socks

by Ilsa Evans

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rose looks at me with slightly narrowed eyes.

  ‘Well, yesterday . . .’ I hesitate, unsure how to continue. ‘When you went all – well, strange.’

  ‘Strange?’

  ‘It was the coffee,’ interjects Harold, from across the room. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Rose emphatically, ‘it was.’

  ‘But –’ I look at her in confusion ‘– I thought that’s what you wanted to talk about.’

  ‘No,’ says Rose.

  ‘Oh, okay. Then what was it you wanted?’

  ‘All I want to ask,’ Rose continues, straightening herself in a futile attempt to measure up to my height, ‘is whether you know that girl Joanne very well.’

  ‘Joanne? Well, I suppose so.’

  ‘Well enough to have her phone number?’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply, frowning. ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason. Could I have it, please?’

  ‘Sure.’ I shrug again. ‘But I don’t have it on me. Anyway, Mrs Riley, Cam’d have it as well, you know.’

  ‘No, I’ve already asked Camilla and she only has her old one. Apparently, she was overseas for a while and isn’t in the same lodgings now.’

  ‘Of course!’ I try to look apologetic, instead of incredibly curious. ‘And that means I’ll only have her old one as well. I never thought to ask her where she was living now.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rose looks at me expressionlessly. ‘No matter.’

  ‘But I can get it from her on Friday, if you like. One of the girls from the library is moving to America so we’re having a goodbye party. And I believe Joanne’s coming. So’s Cam.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Rose brightens up noticeably. ‘That’s excellent.’

  ‘But can’t you tell me why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, Rose, why don’t you just tell her?’ my mother pipes up from the armchair. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, after all. You did nothing wrong.’

  ‘No.’ Rose shakes her head emphatically. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Oh, Rose,’ sighs my mother, looking at her sadly.

  ‘Sherry, be quiet,’ snaps Rose. ‘I’ll tell if I’m ready and not before. And it certainly won’t be until I tell my own daughters, thank you very much.’

  I follow this exchange while being eaten alive by curiosity. After Rose finishes talking, she glares at my mother while Harold quickly crosses the room and puts his arm around her. I watch amazed as she leans against him and he holds her tight. I’ve never ever seen this woman show any sign of weakness, or of needing support – until now. I catch Bronte’s eye and she looks at me with her mouth open, obviously just as stunned as me. Then I look across at my mother, who is still sitting in the chair with Sherry fast asleep in her lap. But she’s just looking sadly at Rose.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Mum says apologetically. ‘I didn’t think. I’m such a fool, of course you’ll want to tell the girls first. Of course.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Sherry.’ Rose straightens up, but with Harold’s arm still securely around her. ‘You meant well and there was no need for me to snap like that. Inexcusable.’

  ‘Well, you are under a lot of strain, honey.’

  ‘Still inexcusable.’

  ‘Why don’t I get us some tea from the canteen?’ Harold looks at his wife with concern. ‘And I’ll get another chair for you, dear. Is that right?’

  ‘That would be lovely, Harold.’ Rose smiles at him and his face immediately brightens. ‘In fact, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Harold beams.

  ‘And would anybody else like some tea?’ Rose asks politely, her moment of weakness obviously behind her, at least temporarily.

  ‘No thanks,’ Bronte and I reply in unison.

  ‘Yes please,’ says my mother, with a smile at her friend.

  Harold removes his arm from around his wife and, instead, grasps her hand and folds it within both of his. Then, somewhat awkwardly, they leave the room and Rose’s heels can be heard tapping down the corridor in the direction of the elevators. Once I’m quite sure they’re not coming back, I walk over to the bed and sit down next to Bronte. Then I flick my hair back, prop my elbow on a pillow, and fasten my mother with an evil eye.

  ‘Okay. Spill the beans – what’s going on?’

  ‘Sorry, honey.’ Mum tucks the blanket around the baby fastidiously to avoid looking at me. ‘I’ve promised.’

  ‘Can you just give me a hint?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does it involve Richard?’

  ‘How did you know?’ Mum looks at me with astonishment as Sherry starts to stir.

  ‘I know more than you think,’ I reply sagely, hoping to trick her into a disclosure. ‘So if you tell me what you know, then I’ll tell you how I know what I know.’

  ‘Um . . . ’ Mum jiggles the baby. ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Me too,’ says Bronte, looking from me to her grandmother and then back again. ‘I have no idea what’s going on at all! Who’s Richard?’

  Instead of answering, my mother puts her finger and thumb together and runs them across her lips as if she is closing a zipper. Then she holds the pinched digits out in front and, after making sure that we are both watching, flicks her hand to indicate the throwing away of a key. I shake my head and sigh.

  ‘Hell, Mum. How old are you?’

  ‘Old enough to keep a secret,’ replies Mum, obviously forgetting her lips are supposed to be zippered, ‘and I won’t tell you, honey, so please don’t even try. Because it’s not my secret to tell.’

  I watch her narrowly as she transfers her attention back to the baby and starts singing a soft, low lullaby that I remember dimly from my own childhood. Sherry looks at her great-grandmother with a daft expression on her face and a thin trickle of milk threads its way from her open mouth and down her chin. Actually, the daft look makes them look a lot like each other, except that the baby’s eyes are beginning to cross ever so slightly.

  Bronte nudges me and, when I look at her, nods towards my mother before shrugging and raising her eyebrows at me questioningly. But I’ve got nothing to tell her because I don’t know that much more than she does. However, if there’s one thing I’m determined on, it’s that I’m going to find out. Even if what it takes is getting my mother alone in a dark room with a swift application of some truth serum, perhaps a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream, or even an electrified cattle prod. One way or the other, I’m going to find out what the hell is going on. And soon.

  WEDNESDAY

  2050 hrs

  Username? Diamond

  Password?

  The message flashes at me impatiently while I rack my brains attempting to recall what on earth I did use as a password. I take a sip of my hot chocolate and stare at the computer, willing it to tell me – but it remains stubbornly mute. Just flash, flash, flashing. So I chew my lip and tap my fingers on the desk in irritation as I try to remember. Unfortunately, it was quite some time ago and there have been a lot of passwords under the bridge since then. In fact, it often feels like everything I do requires either a password or a PIN number – or both.

  I distinctly remember the technician leaning over the desk after setting up the internet for me, and directing me to enter a username and password. I distinctly remember him mainly because he had an extremely well-rounded butt. I type the word ‘butt’ in the password box and hit enter, and then wait with my fingers crossed.

  The password you have entered is INCORRECT

  Please enter your correct password _____________

  Bugger, bum, bitch. I take a deep breath, lean back in the study chair and play with my ponytail while I try to empty my mind. The theory being that if the brain is a blank, then the password will just light up centre-stage and obligingly blink on and off until it can be memorised. But the only thing blinking on and off is me. So, while I take another sip of hot chocolate, I go through the laborious process of refilling my mind. Then I type in the word ‘Teresa
’, and hit enter.

  The password you have entered is INCORRECT

  Please enter your correct password _____________

  I enter ‘Terry’ and ‘Bronte’ and ‘Sherry’ and variations of my address. Then I try the name of a pet dog I had as a child, the name of the base I was stationed at during my RAAF years, the name of my first boyfriend and, for good measure, the name of the guy I lost my virginity with. I even, in sheer desperation, try the name ‘Dennis’. After each attempt I hit the enter key and hold my breath as I watch the screen.

  The password you have entered is INCORRECT

  Please enter your correct password _____________

  My brain’s now thoroughly racked, I get up and walk around the study, straightening a few books and idly running my finger over the shelves to check for dust. Then I readjust the curtain folds and align Bronte’s framed VCE certificate. I end up in front of the filing cabinet and, hit with sudden inspiration, pull the drawer open and remove the file marked ‘computer’. I flick quickly through the contents in search of a password, any password – but all that’s there are bills, receipts and an old school project of Bronte’s called ‘The Perfect Computer Design’. It seems Bronte’s perfect computer was coloured three shades of pink, with enormous speakers and a mouse shaped like a high-heeled shoe. Or, at least, that’s what it looks like.

  I could ring Bronte at the hospital and ask her what the password is but, judging by the way she looked earlier, I wouldn’t be all that surprised if she was already asleep. And she’s going to need every bit of rest she can get. So I sit back down and, with my chin resting in my hands, send various ESP messages through the flashing screen and straight to the hard drive. Some of the messages are polite, and some not so polite. However, after a few minutes concentration, I’m rewarded by an image that flashes onto the blank slate of my mind so, after I examine the vision from all angles, I lean forwards and type the word ‘Richard’ on the keyboard.

  The password you have entered is INCORRECT

  Please enter your correct password ______________

  Well, so much for ESP. I try kicking the side of the computer in frustration but, even with the threat of further torture to all its bits and bytes, it still doesn’t buckle under pressure. Instead the phone rings so, with a baleful glance at the computer, I flick my ponytail back and answer it instead.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello yourself!’ Cam sounds particularly upbeat and jovial. ‘I’ve been trying to ring you all day, where’ve you been?’

  ‘Well, let me see –’ I reach out, turn the computer screen off, and settle in for a chat ‘– I played tennis this morning, then I went shopping. Actually, I ran into your sister as well.’

  ‘Which sister?’

  ‘Diane. She was out with the twins. Anyway, then I was here the rest of the afternoon so you couldn’t have tried too hard.’

  ‘No, I went over to visit your daughter this afternoon. That’s why I was ringing, I thought we could have gone together.’

  ‘So what did you think of the baby?’

  ‘Cute, very cute,’ Cam sounds enthusiastic, ‘and she looks like you and Bronte, too. Made me feel all clucky.’

  ‘Why, because she looked like me?’

  ‘No, in spite of the fact she looked like you,’ Cam laughs. ‘But I thought Bronte seemed a bit tired.’

  ‘Yes, I did too,’ I agree readily. ‘Reality must be starting to hit. Did you hear she’s bringing the baby here for a week?’

  ‘Yes!’ Cam laughs again. ‘But I don’t see why. Doesn’t she know what you’re like with babies?’

  ‘Hey!’ I exclaim, stung. ‘I’m perfectly fine! Besides, I don’t have to do anything; she’s just coming home for the company. You know, some support.’

  ‘Hmm, interesting concept. Oh, and thanks for the note!’

  ‘What note?’ I ask, puzzled.

  ‘The one you left on my pillow that CJ found,’ replies Cam evenly. ‘The one that she thinks is proof I have a boyfriend named Rudolph who sleeps over. And the one she showed her father to prove that I have a boyfriend named Rudolph who sleeps over.’

  ‘Oh, that note!’ I say merrily. ‘No problem.’

  ‘Hmm. Anyway, what’re you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘Let me see. I’ve got some carpet cleaners coming in the morning, then I’ve got a doctor’s appointment, and Bronte’s coming home at some stage but I’m not sure of the time yet. Oh, and then I might pop in and see my mother because I need to ask her something.’ I narrow my eyes as I briefly envisage the coming interrogation. ‘Which reminds me, Cam, when you’ve finished telling me why you want to know what I’m doing, just say the word ‘Rose’ so that I remember to tell you the very interesting thing that happened at the hospital.’

  ‘It sounds like it involves my mother,’ says Cam suspiciously. ‘Does it?’

  ‘Sure does. Now, what’s up tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, I’ve had this free gym membership for months now, and I haven’t activated it because I haven’t had time, but I thought I might go tomorrow. That is, if you want to come along?’

  ‘You mean because you know I used to belong to a gym, I can show you the ropes and you won’t look such a dingbat?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Okay.’ I smile to myself. ‘How about I pick you up around two?’

  ‘Sounds good. But . . . um, I’ll drive. And now–Rose!’

  ‘Well! There I was, visiting Bronte, when who should arrive but your mother and mine. Oh, and Harold. Anyway, after the usual stuff about the baby and all, your mother pulled me aside and asked me for Joanne’s phone number.’

  ‘Is that it?’ asks Cam, sounding disappointed. ‘She asked me for that the other day as well.’

  ‘Yes, so she said. But she got terribly excited when she thought I had it, and then when I remembered that all I had was the old one – I swear she nearly fainted!’

  ‘Fainted?’ Cam sounds disbelieving. ‘My mother?’

  ‘Yes! Harold had to prop her up. And my mum turns around and says, “Rose, just tell her” – meaning me – “what’s going on because it’s nothing to be ashamed of and you’ve done nothing wrong.” There! What do you think that means?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replies Cam slowly, ‘but something really strange is going on.’

  ‘Yes. And I’m going to find out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, my mother obviously knows so I’m going around there tomorrow to torture her. I’ll let you know the end result at the gym.’

  ‘Excellent. Because it’s got me stumped. I was talking about it with Diane and Mum hasn’t ever been to Tasmania. So how on earth would she know him?’

  ‘I don’t know. But she does.’

  ‘Yes, she sure does. And, speaking of him, what was the deal with you the other day?

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask defensively.

  ‘You know! That was some extreme reaction!’

  ‘It was your coffee, that’s all.’

  ‘Will everybody stop blaming my coffee!’

  ‘Okay then,’ I laugh agreeably. ‘And, yes, I did have a rather odd reaction. But I worked it all out later. Do you remember my father?’

  ‘Your father?’ repeats Cam with confusion. ‘Well, yes – vaguely. But I only ever met him once or twice.’

  ‘See, my father was very similar in looks to Richard,’ I explain earnestly. ‘Same body type, same eyes, same sort of aura. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘No, but continue.’

  ‘You do so. Anyway, I suppose I miss my father. That is, I know I miss my father, and I think when I saw Richard I just reacted to the resemblance, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, that makes sense,’ says Cam sarcastically, ‘and it explains perfectly why you wanted to jump him on my kitchen floor.’

  ‘I did not!’

  ‘You did so!’

  ‘Did not!’

  ‘Did –’ Cam stops, and starts laughing instead.

  �
�It’s not funny,’ I say sulkily.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she agrees with a smirk in her voice. ‘It’s actually a sign you need therapy. And soon. I can recommend a good one, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, I saw how together you are the other day!’ I say nastily. ‘Together with Santa, that is.’

  ‘Terry –’

  ‘Didn’t the antlers get in the way when you –’

  ‘Two o’clock,’ she interrupts shortly, and hangs up.

  I put the receiver back into its cradle and resume staring at the computer while I play with my ponytail. How dare she mock my theory? It’s a perfectly good theory and I’m sticking with it. I lean forwards and switch the screen back on. Then, simply because it feels appropriate, I type in a four-letter word beginning with ‘F’ and hit enter.

  The password you have entered is INCORRECT

  Please enter your correct password _______________

  If only it were that easy. If only life were that easy – if life itself had a password, and all you had to do was type it in your own personal console and everything would be revealed. In easily understandable language that you could then take and apply wherever necessary. So that nothing was awkward, nothing difficult and nothing incomprehensible. You’d just coast along, changing programs at will.

  And each key on the keyboard would have an appropriate purpose – like ‘delete’ for those people who are particularly annoying, ‘alt’ for when you want to live outside the square, ‘shift’ and your new house is all set up, and ‘backspace’ to erase that really stupid thing you just said. Escape, control, home, insert – they would all have a specific use much more in keeping with actual life. And all you would need is your password.

  But then again, what would be the use? I’d probably forget it, anyway.