‘I would like to invite him to the wedding,’ said Tom.
‘Of course. You must,’ replied Thel. ‘Oh, I see. You are worried your parents will misbehave. Start throwing plates and airing the family linen. We won’t embarrass you with nasty scenes. Is that what is worrying you?’
Tom tried to keep her on track. ‘No, of course not. I just don’t want you to be hurt.’
‘Have I told you how proud of you I am, how much I actually like you? Forget that you’re my son. I just really like you.’
‘Yes, Thel, you have told me that, repeatedly,’ said Tom.
‘I have?’ said Thel vaguely. ‘Well good. It’s important you should know.’
‘I don’t want it to be uncomfortable for you at the wedding,’ continued Tom. ‘I guess I’m asking for you to help me here. I don’t know why you and Hal split up. I don’t know if you hate each other, though he certainly doesn’t seem to hate you. I only know that he is a topic you and I have never discussed. But I don’t even know why that is. Why have we never talked about it?’
Thel looked steadily at her son, the smile fading from her face. ‘I don’t know how to explain it to you. I guess that’s why I’ve never tried. I don’t think of it as being any of your business. What happened between your father and me is between us. It’s personal. I don’t think I owe you any explanation.’ Her tone was no longer flippant. She was calm and measured. Tom watched the wall go up. Whatever he wanted to know, Thel wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. She simply would not discuss it.
‘What about Sarah’s parents? Now that you know this side of the family will behave, what’s happening with the other side?’
‘Her father is too sick to travel,’ replied Tom.
‘And her mother?’
Tom shrugged.
‘I see,’ said Thel. ‘How those two selfish people ever produced someone like Sarah is beyond me. They’re so lucky and they don’t even know it. That makes me so sad.’
‘They sent us a cheque,’ said Tom.
‘I’ll bet they did. Selfish bloody people.’
Driving back to Sydney later that night, Tom wondered what was his business. What rights did he have to know about his parents’ relationship? He couldn’t be sure. He would like to discuss it with Sarah. He knew it was a blind spot for him and that he may not see it clearly. He felt he needed clarification.
To Tom it seemed out of character. His relationship with Thel was defined by their absolute honesty. Nothing was taboo. Thel had insisted on it. When the local parish priest had told Tom that touching himself was a sin, Thel had been annoyed and told him that was absolute rubbish and if it felt good, he should do it. She had explained to him about the sticky stuff that he found on his pyjamas some mornings. She hadn’t been embarrassed so neither had he.
When he brought Sarah home there was no question that they would share his bedroom. Thel often brought them tea and toast in bed, curling up herself at the foot of the bed for a chat. When he had been younger and Thel had carted him around various artists’ colonies, she had happily explained all about the weird and wonderful relationships that were going on around them. Tom had never asked a question of Thel and been denied. Until now.
Tom was surprised at his reaction to Thel’s evasiveness. He felt unsettled and he couldn’t understand why. All the way home he mulled it over, looking at it from different angles. He looked forward to talking it over with Sarah. He wanted her cool reasoning to help him make sense of it. As he drove, Tom examined his memories of the time when his father had left. He thought of it as his childhood shuddering to a halt. He remembered Thel sitting in the kitchen chair staring blankly at the wall, impenetrable. That was what had scared Tom the most. His wild, gregarious mother sat for hours, not speaking, not crying, not seeing Tom, just staring.
At eight he had had little concept of the future, so the idea of Hal leaving and not returning wasn’t the sudden shock for him that it had been for Thel. Tom had no way of knowing what it would mean. Instead, its impact had been felt as a series of hurts and disappointments that Hal wasn’t there when Tom expected him to be. He didn’t come to footy training that morning, he wasn’t in the kitchen boiling Tom’s egg the next morning, he wasn’t at home after school to admire Tom’s science project.
For months Tom had expected Hal to reappear at any second. The realisation that Hal would never again be there to do anything with him came to Tom slowly, achingly. He wondered why Hal didn’t want to be with him any more. He wondered what he had done wrong. His mother withdrew for a time too. Tom worked very hard at being good after that.
He couldn’t retrieve any sad memories before that time. As far as he knew everyone in his little world was happy. But obviously more had been going on with his parents. He saw that now with the logic of an adult. But deep inside he still carried the blame and guilt of that eight-year-old boy.
Tom tried to explain how he felt to Sarah the following night as they sat on the couch, Thel’s artwork for their invitations spread on the table in front of them.
‘Is it my business? Do I have the right to know why he left?’
Sarah was thoughtful. ‘I think that’s a conversation you should be having with Hal. He’s the one who left.’
Tom considered. ‘I know that. And I will, I hope. But what I don’t understand is why Thel won’t talk about it with me.’
Sarah understood exactly what was upsetting Tom. Thel had always made it clear that her marriage was an area of her life and past that was closed to everyone, including Tom. Sarah could only guess at the depth of pain that would make Thel shut Tom out. She seemed to have closed her mind to her son’s own suffering. He needed to know he wasn’t to blame. But Thel was unable to help him.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sarah. ‘But you are incredibly lucky to have Thel as your mum. We both are.’
Tom smiled. ‘I love that you love Thel.’
‘Well then, how would you feel if I asked her to give me away at our wedding?’
Tom’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘That is a great idea.’
Sarah reached for the phone and dialled Thel’s number.
Thel was just settling down with a glass of wine in her old leather couch on the porch. Since Tom’s visit she had been feeling listless and melancholy. Their conversation had brought up so many painful memories. All day she had skirted around her easel, unable to settle down to work. She listened to Sarah’s request.
‘I would be honoured, my dear,’ she told Sarah.
After the call her house didn’t seem so large and empty.
CHAPTER 11
Today we’re playing buttons. Press my buttons. Everyone can have a go. Pick a button. You know where they are. Everyone does. It must be written up on a blackboard outside the day room. Or maybe it’s tattooed on my forehead. A list of my buttons. Choose well. Then press. Good and hard. The more I react the more you win. If you draw a little blood, extra bonus points for you. It’s a team sport, led by Dr Hubert. He’s the master. He’s so good at it.
*
Just as dawn broke a summer storm hit, crashing across the city and heading for the sea. Sarah watched its arrival. She had trouble sleeping these days and often found herself standing at the balcony doors, looking aimlessly across the harbour, waiting impatiently for the day to begin. She was restless and uptight, with energy to burn. She felt the temperature drop and walked back to the bedroom.
‘It’s an awful morning outside,’ she said loudly to the mound in the bed that was Tom. ‘The sort of morning we should spend in bed. I hope it improves for our picnic this afternoon. You want some breakfast?’
Tom grunted sleepily.
Sarah retrieved the Saturday newspapers from the front door and headed for the kitchen.
*
Ginny opened her curtains and looked out across the grey, rain-splattered morning.
‘You’re right, Sarah, it’s a bitch of a morning. Or a Sarah of a morning. What do you think of that, Kitty? A Sarah
of a day? Hmmm?
‘You stay right there, Kitty my dear. I’ll be back. It looks like we are all spending the morning in bed. Tee hee.’
Ginny fetched her own morning newspapers from her front door and took them back to bed with a cup of tea and a saucer of cream for Kitty.
She walked back into her bedroom just as Sarah was reading the front-page headlines to Tom. ‘Tough policies on homeless. Forty-six dead in Indian train crash. Aussie cricket heroes triumph again.’
She tossed the papers across to Tom and headed back to the kitchen. She loaded up the tray with coffee and toast. When she reappeared Tom still hadn’t stirred but Sarah could tell he was awake. It wasn’t that he had opened his eyes or spoken or even wriggled a little finger. As far as Sarah could tell he was in exactly the same position as when she got up. But years of sleeping with the man meant she knew. He was awake.
She picked up the papers and started to read.
‘Well, lookie here,’ said Sarah. ‘A special investigation, by Tom Wilson, in Canberra. You’ve got the page-three lead, hotshot.’
That got his attention. Tom sat up as Sarah started to read.
Maverick gold-medal winning Olympian Ms Melissa Giles claimed yesterday that the government inquiry into steroid abuse by Olympic athletes will be nothing more than a whitewash when it is tabled in parliament next week.
In an exclusive and wide-ranging interview Ms Giles, one-time captain of the Australian basketball team, attacked the Federal Government, three major Australian sporting associations and the International Olympic Committee for not delivering on their promises after the 2000 Sydney Games.
Tom listened intently, nodding as Sarah read the twenty-paragraph story.
‘Keep going,’ he said when she stopped.
‘That’s all,’ she said, putting the newspaper aside.
Tom snatched the newspaper.
‘What about the body builder? Where’s all the stuff about how he killed his wife?’ Tom scanned the article. ‘It’s not there. They’ve cut it out. Why would they do that?’
Tom was angry. When he had left work late the day before he had seen the page laid out. And the interview with the body builder had definitely been in then.
As Tom spoke, Sarah peeled off her dressing gown. She had stopped listening, paying attention only to the tingling in her groin. The coffee had hit her bloodstream, giving her a charge, and she felt an overpowering surge of lust.
‘I can’t believe they cut that out …’ Tom was saying.
Sarah sidled under the covers, her hands roaming over Tom’s bare chest and down his stomach. She nuzzled into his neck, gently nibbling his earlobe.
Tom pushed her away.
‘It took me months to get that man to talk to me. He talked about how easy it was to get drugs, how the system almost condoned …’
Sarah wasn’t listening. She pushed aside the sheets and climbed defiantly onto Tom’s lap.
‘Sarah, don’t,’ said Tom.
‘Tom,’ breathed Sarah. ‘I want you.’
Tom saw the naked lust in her eyes and recoiled. He felt bruised and diminished enough by what had been done to his story. Sarah coming at him with all the finesse of a steam train was a further assault on his ego. He felt threatened, under attack. He couldn’t just perform on demand, he did not want to. He felt himself shrink further inside.
‘No, Sarah,’ he said, pushing her off him. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
Sarah felt the pent-up energy explode inside her. ‘Why not?’ she barked angrily, standing naked in front of him, every muscle clenched.
He saw for the first time the new definition of her body. She was tight and muscular. She towered over him as he lay propped against the pillows in bed. Her hands were planted aggressively either side of her taut stomach, her biceps bulging. She looked like a fiery Amazon. Tom looked at her in amazement. She looked magnificent. He could see that. And he had never felt less like making love to her. He felt completely intimidated by her blazing sexuality.
‘Oh, it’s all right when you’re in the mood,’ spat Sarah. ‘So why isn’t it all right when I’m in the mood?’
Tom looked at her in confusion. He didn’t understand what was going on here.
There was no love, no tenderness. His beautiful Sarah, loving, warm, kind Sarah, was staring at him with the icy glare of a cold, hard, demanding predator. He rose slowly from the bed and faced her. His towering frame dwarfed her, but it was her explosive energy that filled the room.
‘I’m not in the mood, Sarah,’ he said quietly. ‘Just let it go.’
Wearily, he turned his back and went off to the shower.
Sarah slammed the bedroom door.
‘Oh yeah, thank you, Tom,’ she muttered, her voice a low deep growl. ‘It’s always fine when you want to but, oh no, not when I might be in the mood … Bastard!’ she called out after him.
She was enraged, overwhelmed by her conflicting feelings. She felt strong and virile, ready to burst. She wanted to roar, to bellow, make enough noise to drown out the energy erupting inside her.
*
Sarah ran and ran. Through the park, under the canopy of fig trees. The rain poured down in sheets, heavy and relentless. She ran hard, her heart beating painfully against her chest. Her throat ached with the effort of breathing. She was almost oblivious of the strains on her body. Her mind was screaming. Rushcutters Bay park was deserted. Under the trees the light was sparse and gloomy, droplets of rain finding their way through the dense canopy and landing on her bare head. She focussed on the ground in front of her, leaping over gnarled roots that poked through the concrete. She pushed herself harder. She wanted to hurt. She wanted to feel it. Anything to drown out the screeching inside her head. To blot out that ugly scene, the way Tom had looked at her. The disgust in his eyes. She felt out of control, fighting the hysteria that was rising in her, threatening to overwhelm her.
For Sarah, feeling out of control was the worst thing. It struck at her very core. She thought of Tom. Right now she hated him. It wasn’t logical, but she wasn’t thinking clearly. She was feeling and reacting. She was a maelstrom of swirling emotions. The pain in her head matched the pain in her heart. She struggled to bring herself back to some sort of equilibrium, trying instinctively to burn off the physical effects of the steroids that, without her knowledge, were coursing through her system, changing the biochemical make-up of her body and playing havoc with her emotions. What was happening to her?
She reached the edge of the park and ran across the road, up the hill. Her calves ached as she powered up the steep incline. Without the trees to block the rain, it fell unchecked on her sweat-soaked back and shoulders. She felt an urgency, an all-encompassing need to keep running, to run from all the intense emotions that were threatening to overpower her.
Her mind was swamped with abstract thoughts and images that she couldn’t process. Her whole being was out of kilter. Her body felt like it belonged to someone else. She hardly recognised herself in the mirror any more. Her body felt powerful and strong and she liked that but she felt disconnected from it. Her breasts seemed hard and flat, not like her own at all. She was breaking out on her back, large ugly blind pimples. And she had noticed hair around her nipples – tough, stringy black hair sprouting across her chest. She thought she understood the symptoms. A massive hormonal imbalance brought on by her bulimia. She had been down this path before. When she was in the worst grip of bulimia she had watched her body change. She had developed fine down across her jawline as her body went haywire. Her periods had stopped. She had broken out in pimples.
The bulimia had developed soon after Sarah started boarding school. Her mother’s decision to send her away had left the young girl reeling. Everything that had been safe and familiar from her life in the Singapore household was gone in an instant. She had missed the warmth and affection of Mattie, the Malaysian cook, who used to let her sit on the bench and dice the vegetables while around her exotic smells filled the air. And Mr Shiwa
r, the friendly house driver with the lopsided grin, who picked her up each day from school with a Chinese sweetbread.
But most of all she missed her beloved Amah, the Chinese nanny, who woke her in the mornings and soothed her to sleep at night with interesting stories about people with funny names. She missed Amah’s pudgy arms and musty smell.
Her parents had been only distant figures in her life but it didn’t matter to Sarah. She was the centre of the little household, completely indulged and adored. And she had been happy. She only realised how happy when she was confronted with her new life, amidst a sea of grey uniforms and new rules that she didn’t understand.
She had felt powerless in her new environment. It seemed as if she had suddenly lost control of her world. She lost all sense of who she, Sarah Cowley, was. In a perverse attempt at self-protection, she developed an iron grip on the one thing she could control – her body. Sarah turned inward, focussing all her energy on what went on inside. It gave her back a sense of control that she so desperately needed. The world was too big and unpredictable for her to face. And her emotions were too wild to tame, the depths of her loneliness and alienation too scary. At first it worked well. Eating whatever she wanted, then purging herself, made her feel powerful. Watching her weight drop gave her a deep feeling of satisfaction.
But, ironically, as the bulimia took hold she became powerless against it. It became an addiction. And then she started to feel a deep sense of shame.
Throughout her years at the boarding school Sarah lived on an emotional seesaw, sometimes managing to keep her bulimia under control as she settled into the school and made friends, at other times unable to fight the overwhelming urge to purge.
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