by Bill Condon
Bull offers me a lift up there
I remind him I’m nearly eighteen.
‘So that’d be a no, would it?’
‘See you, Bull – Zoe.’ And even though he can’t hear me – ‘See you, Reggie.’
Trudging up the road I become a part of the landscape, along with the endless sky, the bushland on both sides of me, and the locusts, who never let up on the most boring one-note song in the world.
I’ve done this walk so many times. Going to see Kayla . . .
We’ve been friends since we were nine. Back then I wasn’t great at conversation. Hello and goodbye were my strong points. Finding something for the middle was always a problem. When the new girl came to school I could see no reason why she’d want to know me.
She had mad legs on her even then, and she’s a ranga: long flowing hair the colour of apricots. Dress her in rags, she’d still look hot.
I tried to talk to her a few times, but I think she saw me as a human form of broccoli: she knew I’d probably be good for her, but she didn’t like me.
One day it changed.
We were on the school bus, sitting in separate worlds as usual, when she began to sob.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Buster.’ She screwed her eyes up to nothing, but still the tears rolled down. ‘My new puppy. He was bitten by a snake. Mum said the vet would save him, but she didn’t.’
I got lucky and found the right words to say. There weren’t many of them and they weren’t important or memorable, but I think they were the right ones. I held onto her hand, too; seemed a natural thing to do, not strange or uncomfortable for either of us. It took a while, but gradually the tears stopped and the smile came out. It was always there, just needed a bit of coaxing.
That day I think we really saw each other for the first time. I mean, saw beyond the bag of bones on the outside. You take away her pretty and my plain and what you get underneath is about the same: a couple of lost girls looking to be found.
As I crest the hill, I see Kayla standing on the road and waving to me. I walk faster.
When we go inside her house she makes a grand announcement to little Harrison.
‘Hey. Guess what? Aunty Tiffy’s here!’
He looks up for a second. I’m not a cartoon character or a cuddly animal. I’m not an ice-cream or a lolly. All I am is a disappointment.
He goes back to his colouring-in. Smart kid.
I tell Kayla about Reggie.
‘He’s probably really scared,’ she says. ‘I feel so sorry for him.’
I’m scared, too. If anything happens to Reggie I don’t know how I’ll handle it. Don’t even want to think about it.
‘Where’s that nappy monster?’
I could run courses on how to move a conversation in another direction.
‘Here she is.’ Kayla leads me to the baby’s cot. ‘Look, Rowie – Aunty Tiffy.’
‘Hi, Rowie!’ I lean in to give her a kiss, but then instantly lean back out. Something died in there. I’ve been around the kids lots of times, but I never get used to that smell.
Kayla gets a whiff. ‘I think it could be time to change her.’
That just might be the understatement of the year.
‘Okay. Let me know when it’s done. I’ll be outside.’
She grabs my hand. ‘Don’t even think about making a run for it, Tiff. I know how much you hate changing nappies, but today’s the day. Look and learn.’
Kayla peels the dirty nappy from Rowie. The horror! The horror!
‘Don’t worry about missing out,’ she says, ‘you’ll have a turn before long. Rowie’s a machine: food goes in, food comes out; all day, all night.’
There is no way I’m going to have a baby if it leads to this.
At last Rowie is clean and happy, and Harrison is contentedly watching a cartoon. That leaves time for me and Kayla to carry on the way we always do. Our conversation travels down many windy paths, from girls at school who we’d like to see attempt spontaneous combustion, to guys too good to be true, to Kayla’s mum’s morning sickness, to the odd boy I met at the library, and finally – to wondering if it’s possible to be so bored to death you actually die?
Kayla decides it is. ‘It’s probably like, your heart gets so bored it just goes, “What’s the point?” and stops.’
It’s fun to rave on like this but we both know there are important things to talk about. School is over; not just for the year, but forever. We’ve done Year 12. We’re free. That’s what we’ve always wanted, but now that we’ve got it, it’s too big and dark and scary to handle. Summer is nearly at an end and that means life decisions; like heading in different directions, saying, ‘I’ll see you later’, when we don’t know how long later might be.
The first major change for me will come on Monday. That’s when I start at the Eagle. It’s officially work experience, but there’s a slim hope it could be permanent. Miss Arthur, our English teacher, put in a good word to the editor for me. I don’t know what she said, but it was enough for him to give me a chance. The Eagle is one of the few papers I know of that still takes on cadets straight out of school. If the editor likes me, if I like the job, if I’m any good at it – if, if, if – I just might get a cadetship.
Kayla has a long, long list of things she doesn’t want to do with her life. The only thing she’s really set her heart on is being an artist. She loves painting – portraits, landscapes, abstracts – anything that involves a brush and colour. At school she was the best at art by far, and she thought that was how it was always going to be. But about two years ago she realised the truth. She’s still talented but she’s like a six or a seven out of ten, and the world only gives a gold medal to the nines and the tens.
‘I’m not worried.’ That’s what she keeps on telling me.
For now both of us step carefully around the subject of the future. It’s one of those too-hard things you leave until you can’t put it off any longer. It’s much easier to be little kids again, playing show-and-tell.
‘Back in a minute.’ Kayla jumps up. ‘I have to find where Inky put them.’
‘Put what?’
‘You’ll see.’
Kayla’s mum has a pretty first name: Bess. But Kayla calls her Inky and her mum doesn’t mind, so that’s what I call her, too. It’s short for ‘incubator’. She has a tribe of kids. The one on the way will make six – or is it seven? Let’s see . . . there’s Rowie and Harrison. Cody and Hales have been fostered and, of course, there’s Kayla. Yep, six. There are two or three fathers involved. The latest one is Colin.
He’s a lot younger than Inky: good-looking, great body, cheeky smile. She thinks he might be the knight in shining armour that she’s always been searching for.
Kayla has her doubts. She keeps on asking me, ‘What’s a guy like that doing with my mother?’
I understand where she’s coming from. Inky’s been known to drink too much, she’s hooked on pokies, she has a heap of kids, and she’s too old for him – other than that they’re a perfect match.
I throw out a wild and crazy idea. ‘Maybe he really likes her. Maybe he even loves her.’
Kayla groans, but then thinks better of it.
‘I shouldn’t be such a bitch. You could be right. Mum is a really nice person. He should love her – he better.’
Rowie was only tiny when Inky and Colin met. Rowie’s dad had buzzed off and Inky was doing it tough. After not very long at all, Colin was the new man and Inky was pregnant again.
So far he hasn’t put a foot wrong. He calls her Bess and says it with affection – I’ve heard him – and he’s got a steady job at the meatworks, he comes home every night, has never once been violent, and doesn’t get drunk. What’s not to like?
But still Kayla isn’t completely persuaded.
There’s one more major hurdle for him to jump. A new baby’s coming. That changes things; lots more pressure. It’s the make or break time when guys have to decide if they really want to be a daddy. Rowie’s dad fell at that hurdle.
‘We’ll soon find out how real Colin is,’ she says. ‘I so hope he doesn’t bail.’
‘Here you are, just like I promised.’
Kayla drops a large and bulky white envelope onto the table in front of me: her mum’s ultrasound pictures.
‘You sure she won’t mind, Kayla?’
‘As if. You’re about the only one in Gungee who hasn’t seen them. Inky shows them around like they’re happy snaps from a family picnic.’
At first I don’t know what to make of what I see. The scans are grey and grainy, shaped like pyramids with a bite taken out of the top of them, or they could be shots of a ufo, or, I know, a dark night sea with just a glint of silver from the moon. But there’s not a baby in sight.
‘Look there.’ Kayla’s finger marks the spot.
I make out a vague circle.
‘That’s Montana,’ she says.
‘Really? The whole state?’
She ignores my excellent joke. Another witty gem wasted.
‘That was a very early one. You keep watching in that same area and see what happens.’
With every new ultrasound the image becomes clearer. I gradually see miniature hands and feet and toes. And then, when I stare really hard, a chubby face appears, looking like one of those Valentine’s Day angels.
‘Creepy, eh?’ says Kayla.
Yep. Creepy and incredible.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘So, what did you have to show me?’
I reach into my jeans and take out an envelope. Inside is a washed-out photo. My little piece of treasure. I hand it to her without explanation.
She glances at it then back at me, making comparisons. Same eyes, she decides, same mouth.
‘This has to be your mother.’
‘You got it.’
She studies the photo again.
‘Yeah, it’s obvious now. You’re her. She’s you.’
About two months after this photo was taken, I was born and Mum died – clean swap. Caring about someone I never knew doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it is. This photo means a lot. There must be some invisible mother–daughter wiring that runs from her image in a straight line to my heart.
‘My mum’s name was Julia.’
She’s standing outside a small white house, hands laced together, smiling for the camera.
‘And see her huge tummy?’
‘It’s hard to miss.’
‘Well, that’s me. Photogenic, aren’t I?’
‘Yeah, you were at your best then. It’s all been downhill since.’
‘Thanks, Kayla. You’re so full of compliments.’
She takes a closer look at the photo.
‘Where’d you get it from?’
‘Reggie found it when he was cleaning up some old papers – he doesn’t want to leave a mess behind him when he dies.’
‘You should tell him to get a life.’
‘I do – all the time. Anyway, I think the photo must have been there ever since I was fostered. It’s all I’ve got of my mum.’
She turns it over to look at the back. It’s got names and a date. Even a house number and street.
Forty-one Beamish Street, Surfers Paradise.
As soon as I saw that I copied the address into my journal. Bumped the type size up to twenty-four. Changed the colour to red. All in bold.
‘I’m going there one day. Put flowers on Mum’s grave. I owe her that.’
‘Sounds like a good plan to me.’ Kayla nods as if to underline it. ‘I know you think about your mum a lot. How about we go there together? Be heaps fun.’
I wanted to ask her but had been afraid she wouldn’t be interested. If she’d turned me down, no amount of shrugging would have made it look like I didn’t care.
Ever so casually I tell her, ‘Hmm. I suppose that would be all right . . . okay, let’s do that.’
Soon it’s time for Harrison to go back into training – that’s potty training. Kayla leaves me in charge while she goes to make a snack, even though I tell her I don’t think I ever want to eat again after my experience in nappy hell. She gives me instructions.
‘Read a story to him. There’s a pile of picture books next to his potty.’
‘Doesn’t he want privacy?’
She comes back into the room just to fold her arms and stare at me. Okay. I get it.
‘Praise him for sitting there. If he does anything, go crazy. If it’s a poo, really go mental. You have to clap and he gets a sticker. And for God’s sake call me so I can look at it, too.’
‘Are you sure I can’t make the snack?’
Kayla likes to call this stuff Motherhood Guidance. I think the term she’s looking for is Aversion Therapy.
Before long Harrison has some success and I call in Kayla to be a witness, measure and tag it – whatever. And then both of us run around the house like demented chooks – I only copy her, so don’t blame me. In later life Harrison will need to see a psychiatrist about this, but for now he thinks we’re funny, so mission accomplished. I no sooner step away from him, when Rowie strikes again. And this time it’s my turn to change her.
‘Yuck!’ I hold my hands in front of me and shake them wildly – hoping my fingers might fly off. I have no use for them anymore.
Instead of sympathy, Kayla gives me a high five.
Only two more hours and Inky will be home. She’s out with Colin playing pokies at the Royal – and probably flashing the latest set of ultrasounds about.
‘All better now,’ I say. ‘I’m just not used to . . . that.’
‘You need more practice.’ Kayla bounces Rowie on her knee. That’s like stirring a volcano with a stick. ‘Should get you doing this more often.’
‘Sounds good. I’ll put it in the diary for my next free night – that’ll be ten years from now, on a Tuesday.’
Kayla isn’t really great on amusing comebacks but her eye-rolling is right up there with the very best.
Harrison is on the floor, back at his colouring-in. He looks like he’s coping a lot better than me. Little kids are tough. Maybe I’ll need to see the shrink before him. I ease into the lounge chair and try to relax.
Kayla picks up Rowie. ‘Here’s a present for you. I know you’ve been dying to have a hold.’ She plonks the baby onto my lap. ‘Don’t break her.’
That’s exactly what I’m scared of.
‘Give her the dummy.
‘Don’t hold her too tight.
‘Or too loose.
‘And don’t drop her.’
I feel like a blind person, learning to fly.
‘Now you’ve got it. Don’t move.’
That’s easy. I’m too scared to move.
‘Say cheesecake!’
Kayla and her rotten camera phone.
I poke out my tongue as the flash goes off. Rowie giggles and her fingers rake my face.
‘She likes you, Tiff.’
I try not to show it, but I’m starting to like her, too. I admit I couldn’t see much upside in having a baby at first, but now that she’s dry and clean and smelling good, she seems close to perfect.
‘You’re a natural at this,’ Kayla says.
‘Sure I am.’
‘No, really. You’ve got all the moves down.’
‘What moves? I’m not doing a thing.’
‘Yes you are. You’re putting out all the right vibes. Babies are like cats. They sense if you like them. She’s happy to be with you. Check her out.’
Rowie laughs at that very moment. She does
look like she’s enjoying herself.
‘So how many kids do you think you’ll have, Tiff?’
We’ve been over this ground lots of times; her asking me, me firing it back at her. We have fun with it, but I guess we’re also really searching for the answer.
Kayla can never quite decide. One day she doesn’t want any kids. Ask her the next day and she wants to have a try at Inky’s record. Ask her Sunday morning after a hard night of partying she’ll most likely settle for a pet rock.
For me it’s a toughy. Any other day, when I haven’t got a baby pressed against my chest, I’d know the answer without hesitation. I’ve thought about guys, sure I have. And I’ve thought a whole lot about love: how I’d fall right in it one day, and it would be the best fall of my life. But so far I haven’t even been in the same country as love – at least not the Heathcliff kind. I think one of the essentials for that to happen is for a guy to actually know I’m alive. I don’t get a lot of that.
So I tell myself every chance I get, to help me get used to it –
no guys for me,
no babies
never, ever, ever.
Now I’m not so sure. Somewhere deep down the maternal instinct is stirring, but I know it’s going to pass. Has to.
‘None.’ I hand Rowie back. ‘It’s just a racket to sell nappies.’ I smile as I say it.
‘That’s my Tiff – not a romantic bone in your body.’
I know Kayla’s only joking around but it still cuts into me. I so much want to tell her I didn’t mean it, but I don’t want to have to explain.
Then she squeezes my hand.
It’s like sometimes she knows how my heart feels.
Inky arrives home at ten o’clock. Colin isn’t with her.
‘Before you go waving your finger, Kayla, no, I didn’t have a drink, no, I didn’t have a smoke, and no, I didn’t lose the family fortune. We set a limit and we kept to it. So give me a kiss and put the kettle on. How are you, Tiff? You two have fun, did you? Kids behave?’
Kayla doesn’t move. ‘Where’s Colin?’
Inky peers all around her, as if expecting to find him.
Then she shrugs.
