I start to cry.
As she drifts in and out of sleep, I go to the coffee shop and order a huge sandwich. I want to sing and dance and shout: She’s going to be all right! At four thirty, Hannah arrives with a box of exotic fruit and an enormous bouquet. I leave the women to chat and think how this day could have been helped if only Dessi was here... my ex best friend who stole my boyfriend and is now too selfish to turn up and offer any support.
Somehow I’ve managed to push Abdul out of my mind. In a curious way I don’t find this too difficult. After all, we did only date twice… well, only once if I’m being totally honest. If anything it’s more a case of hurt pride that he could ditch me so easily. I now see him as someone who did his best to drive a dagger between best friends.
Hannah drives me home and it’s all a bit awkward. ‘Anything Julie needs just call,’ Hannah says as I climb out of the car. ‘You should be staying with us,’ she adds shaking her head.
‘I’ll be okay, Hannah. Thanks anyway.’
Still, the empty cottage does feel strange. I decide to spring clean. I want to make everything perfect for when Mum returns. The cats are yowling and I realise that I forgot to feed them this morning.
‘Coming, Myrtle,’ I tell her and fill her feed-bowl. Myrtle looks offended but scoffs everything down, then meows for more. She won’t let the kittens suckle. Then it hits me… Myrtle is trying to wean them. I fill another bowl and Myrtle nudges the kittens towards it. I grab my pad and try in the fewest lines possible to record what is happening. The kittens sniff and fuss until Chagall sticks his nose into the dish. Within minutes, all three are tucking into their first solid food while Myrtle grooms herself.
After a few sketches I remember to check my email. There’s one from Sacha. I feel a rush of gratitude. After the way I’ve treated him, he’s turned out to be an even better friend than I could ever have hoped. It’s a good reminder that not all men are jerks.
‘Has your mum had her op? How is she?’
I hit the reply button and type. ‘She did. She’s okay.’
He comes back with: ‘Can I tell the others?’
‘OK. But please no fuss.’
A few minutes later Kaz and Jodie call me on our landline. Once I tell them that Mum is out of danger, they’re full of news about the parties they’ve been to, some of the clubs, how Bodie has let Kaz down, and how they’re so sorry I had to leave, and anyway, how is Dessi?
Though I say all the right things, deftly avoiding any questions on Dessi, I’m really not interested. It’s not as if my ex best-friend is here to share this gossip. Though I miss Dessi like mad, I know I can never forgive her. It’s a shame really. Sacha and Kaz and Jodie might be good mates but no one else will, or can ever, fill that gap in my heart.
Two days later when Mum comes home, I’ve worked hard and the house sparkles. ‘It’s going to stay like this from now on,’ I tell her. She has a bandaged chest, one arm in a sling and is still looking wan. ‘Oh, and I’ve got a job. Remember the bistro we went to? Three nights a week and $18 an hour cash in hand to start with. I get to eat too. I could bring you home something too so we don’t have to cook. Isn’t that great?’
‘Great.’ She leans back on the couch. Her smile reflects her intense relief.
41. DESSI, Melbourne
There’s no relief for me, even though I weaken enough to phone both Abdul and Emma. Neither picks up their phone.
Neither bothers calling back.
I can’t believe what I’ve done. Did I really bring this onto myself? Now I understand why people become hermits or hide in monasteries. I’m so ashamed of myself I can’t bear to look in the mirror. Abdul was right. How could I have thought it was okay to confess to Emma when she was so worried about Julie?
The next fortnight lingers on in a permanent haze. I can’t listen to any music except songs that wail about lost love. I spend a lot of time in the living room gazing out the window. In some hopeless way I want a twelve year old white van to stop outside my house. But deep inside I know this will never happen. How could I have created such a terrible loss? But then, what else could I have done? I still feel that Emma had to know about Abdul.
I remain in a permanent state of mourning for both my lover and friend. But curiously as time passes, Abdul’s face becomes confused with Emma’s. I find myself mouthing Abdul’s name while picturing Emma’s face. The knowledge that I’m not the only one to suffer from falling in love with the wrong person offers the only consolation I can find. Poems pour out of me. They’re the only solace I can offer myself:
Gale, hurricane, tsunami
Which best describes this cataclysmic event
that’s destroyed my beach, my rocks, my coast?
I’m tumbleweed
Blowing in the wind
I’m flotsam
Floating on the tide
I’m a dandelion
Gliding in the air
I’m anything but me.
Leila does her best to try and cheer me up, phoning every day with something funny to report. One day when I’m feeling particularly low, she calls to ask, ‘Ever heard of the drop-kick alphabet?’
‘No,’ I snap, before reminding myself what a good friend she is, and making an effort to sound interested. ‘What is it?’
‘Something you can use when someone’s really pissing you off. Like whenever you think about Abdul say aloud “A is for arsehole. B is for bugger. C is for…’ Her infectious giggle comes over the line.
I laugh in spite of myself: ‘What about Z?’
‘Z?’ Leila giggles. ‘Zoom him away because he’s worth zero.’
This time we both laugh.
Christmas comes and goes. For me it’s a big non-event, even though Mum and Dad pay for my L’s and Nanna Pearl hands me a generous cheque saying, ‘Darling, this is for some new clothes.’ As an act of contrition I use the money to buy Jeremy a computer game, the latest Man Booker novel for Mum, Dad’s favourite whisky and an expensive face cream for Julie.
I don’t know what to get Emma. That’s really hard when someone isn’t talking. In the end I snail-mail a very expensive box of acrylic paints. Three days later, they come back unopened carrying the label: RETURN TO SENDER.
New Year’s Eve is another non-event, even though Leila comes over with her new boyfriend Harry, her brother Naiz, and several bottles of vodka and orange juice.
Harry turns out to be almost everything Leila promised, and the couple are celebrating their first month together. Though I’m happy for her, I can’t help feeling envious. This should be me and Abdul celebrating.
‘Harry,’ I say. ‘Thought good Muslims don’t drink alcohol?’
‘You’re right!’ Harry gives me a broad wink. ‘But tonight we’re being seriously Aussie.’
They don’t stay long and I finish off the rest of the vodka and still feel miserable. I wonder what Emma is up to… if only we were celebrating the New Year together. But all I end up with is a hangover.
The next few weeks are like a bad dream from which I can’t wake. I almost stop eating and forget to exercise. No one has a clue as to how much I suffer... how terrible I feel. Mum and Dad try talking to me separately, but I tell them that I’ve nothing to discuss. What can I say? Only that I’ve brought all this on my own head and I despise myself for it. Though there’s no excuse for what I’ve done, I’m still not ready to say this aloud to anyone but my reflection in that speckled bathroom mirror. Anyway, everyone is too busy running his or her own life. Most of the time, I either sleep or stare blankly at the TV. The only time I feel half-normal is just on waking, that blessed moment before memory floods in.
I intercept several ‘private number’ calls with no one on the other end. Is Abdul trying to contact me? One time I ask ‘Abdul, that you?’ I’m met by an empty line. I mull over every caress, recalls every conversation in minute detail. In that week between the drive to Flinders and our break-up, I was so happy.
Can it only have been one w
eek? Can one week change a person’s life so completely? But far worse is Emma’s refusal to talk. I see no point in reading a novel or seeing a film if I can’t discuss it with her. Though I think I understand why Emma hates me, I find it hard not to feel badly done by. It isn’t my fault that I fell in love with Abdul, is it? But I also know I could have drawn back and resisted his charm. I was so proud of my virginity, but at the same time equally anxious to lose it. No wonder intelligent, exotic, charming Abdul won me over. Plus, there was always the irritation of listening to Emma rave on about her guys. Guess I needed to prove that I’m equally attractive and can entice men as easily.
What’s more I’m really worried about Emma.
What if she gets depressed again? What if this time she goes through with all those suicidal thoughts? What if nothing stops her? If anything happens, I know it will be my fault. How will I ever live with it?
Everything is covered by a dour veil that can only be lifted by Emma phoning, for things to go on as before, as before, as before.
When I broach this with Julie, all she says is, ‘Darling, I think it’s best I stay out of this.’ And when I burst into tears, ‘Look, it’ll take some time for Emma to forgive you...’
Falling for Abdul has cast a shadow over my life from which I may never recover.
42. EMMA, Melbourne, three weeks later
‘Someone to see you,’ Julie calls from the front door.
I’m still in bed after a frenzied night waiting tables. The soles of my feet feel as if they’re on fire. Hospitality is hard work, harder than I ever realised. Yet even when customers become overly demanding, some even unpleasant, it’s still better than working in the supermarket-from-hell.
‘Hi Emma,’ comes a voice I recognise.
I stagger into the living room and gape. ‘Sash! When did you get back?’
Julie closes the door behind him. ‘Is that a greeting?’ she says mock serious. ‘She’s a bit feral in the mornings, you know.’
‘Sure do.’ He grins wickedly.
‘We shared the unit in Broadbeach,’ I put in quickly. ‘Mum, I did tell you.’
‘Did you?’ She looks puzzled. ‘Like a coffee, Sacha? I was just going to make some for us.’
‘Yes please, Mrs S. That’d be great.’ He thrusts a bunch of flowers at her. ‘Hope you’re feeling better.’
‘Oh, that’s so sweet. I’ll go and put them in water.’
‘Why don’t you go with her,’ I tell Sacha. ‘Give me time to get dressed?’
Ten minutes later, we’re drinking coffee and eating leftover pizza. Julie has always liked Sacha. So do I… but still only as a very close friend. If ever my thoughts flickers back to that night, it’s something I prefer to forget...
‘…doctor’s pleased with the results,’ Mum is saying, ‘and I don’t know what I would have done without Emma. She’s even got her P’s.’
‘How about that!’ Sacha gives me a high five. ‘Want to take me for a drive right now?’
Is he going to pressure me? ‘Actually no,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve got stuff to do.’
Mum’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Go on, you deserve a break.’
I decide not to argue. In the car with Sacha driving, he says, ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet. I need to talk to you.’
Does he intend putting more unwelcome pressure on me? ‘Where?’
We end up in Elwood. ‘Let’s walk.’ He takes my hand and we amble towards the beach. It is one of those blindingly clear days that Melbourne has occasionally. Every detail of Port Phillip Bay is crystalline. I can see Williamstown, the Westgate Bridge and a queue of container ships lined up waiting to dock at Port Melbourne.
I can’t wait to somehow capture it. How to best achieve this? Photos and a collage? Or a simple watercolour using as few lines as possible, or an abstract constructed from those basic outlines. My thoughts float like bubbles as we end up on a bench right by the lighthouse. Sitting there admiring the view I have a sudden explosion of joy. Yes, that’s it! A feeling of how good it is to be alive and Mum being well, and having final results that will get me into the course my heart is set on... and finding a not too unpleasant job to keep me going…well, just about everything except… except my ex-best friend...
Why does Dessi have to intrude into my happiness and spoil it all?
I wake up Sacha is saying ‘…so I was wondering whether your mum would agree.’
I swallow. What is he on about? I haven’t taken in a word. Then I realise that he wants to board with us. He’s saying, ‘I figure what with my student allowance and a job I could pay your mum say, a hundred and fifty bucks a week. I don’t eat much and I’d hardly ever be there except to sleep. Basically I just need a place to crash.’
I digest this as badly as burnt toast. ‘Sash, you crazy?’
He turns to face me and I see shadows in those clear blue eyes. ‘I can’t live at home anymore. My dad…’ he throws up his hands, ‘he’s impossible.’
I stare at him. The few times me and Dessi met his dad, we avoided getting close. He’s huge, hairy and he tackles teachers aggressively if he doesn’t like what they say. I’m not surprised Sacha doesn’t want to live with him.
‘What went wrong in Surfers?’ I ask, trying to deflect him from his latest idea. ‘I mean you seemed rapt in the idea of working on Dad’s boat.’
He shrugs. ‘Surfers seemed dead after you left, so I decided to come home.’ He looks at me with open pleading. ‘I’ve never told anyone this before,’ he says in a low voice. I instinctively tense. ‘My father…he’s cruel.’ The words barely emerge.
Now really hearing him, I cry, ‘Cruel? What do you mean?’
‘He…he hits me… beats me.’
‘Beats you?’ I echo not quite grasping what he’s saying.
‘You know.’ His fists make vicious jabbing movements. ‘When he gets upset with me… calls me “girlie, sissy, wimp, poofter”… stuff like that. Says he’s going to make a man of me.’ He laughs feebly. ‘Guess that’s another reason I thought I was gay. Only I’m not,’ he quickly adds in case I think he’s changed his mind once again.
I’m totally horrified. ‘Oh Sacha... hitting you. That’s awful. Can’t you do something about it? Get some sort of help? Call the cops and have him stopped.’
He stares out across the bay. More of his story comes out. ‘Dad... he used to drink a lot, still does. He’s a binge drinker. Vodka,’ in answer to my questioning look. ‘Whenever he got drunk he’d belt mum up, bash into her.’ Sacha’s face takes on a dull expression, almost as if he’s finally admitting to the world what his family is like. ‘When I got older, and tried to defend Mum, he turned on me.’
‘Oh my god...’ I’m speechless as I recall Mrs Bukowsky’s intense blue eyes and buxom frame. ‘But... but your mum’s such a nice warm lady, why would anyone want to hurt her? Does he still lay into her?’
He smiles wryly. ‘No these days, he’s more interested in his son. Anyway, the night before last, it was just after I got home, he made me show him my results. Course they were bad... bad enough to really get him going. Only...’ he sighs, ‘this time I messed him up a bit... In the end I had to knock him out... it was the only way to stop him.’ His grin is wry. ‘You should see our living room. What a mess.’
‘I’ll bet,’ I say feeling for him and his mother. ‘But... but why doesn’t your mum tell someone? Get an order taken out? She can do that, you know. I mean, how come no one saw her bruises and reported him?’
He shrugs. ‘Dad was always careful to never touch our faces. And after... he always apologises, like he’ll cry and give me bear hugs. Trouble is, Mum believes him. But that only lasts until the next bender.’
‘Don’t you ever tell her to go?’
He looks at me as if I’m mad. ‘What do you think? Course I do. All the time. But she’s old fashioned enough to think her place is with him. I think deep down somewhere she feels sorry for him. He had all these expectations about coming to a new country – t
hat he’d do well here, make heaps of money, only it never turned out that way. He’s still in his old factory job, and I think he hates it more every day.’
‘Is that why he’s angry with you?’
‘Suppose so. He wants me to do something more with my life and he thinks turning me into an accountant will do it. Then at least he could be proud of me.’ He sighs. ‘My dad, he’s just so confused.’
‘Confused he may be, but bashing into you, that’s just not on.’
‘He blames Mum, claims she turned me into a sissy.’
‘There’s no excuse,’ my voice rises, ‘absolutely no excuse for belting you. Did his dad hit him up too?’
‘Yes. That’s how back home, kids are disciplined. Dad says it made a man of him so he figures it should work on me.’
‘That’s not making a man of you,’ I say scornfully. ‘That’s just being a bully.’
We silently look at out to sea. But my mind is buzzing. What’s wrong with all these dads? Some fathers don’t deserve to have kids, not the way they treat them. But that’s not fair. Dessi’s father Graham, is great. The gentlest, kindest man possible. So often in the past I wished I could change places with Dessi. Oh, hell. How can I refuse Sacha now? I’ll have to ask Mum if she’ll mind him crashing in on us. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the extra cash. There’ll have to be certain conditions, though. Definite rules. ‘Hey, cheer up,’ I cry. ‘I’ll ask Mum, all right? ’
He throws his arms around me in a giant hug. ‘Thanks, Emma. You’re a good mate.’
‘But we’re just friends, great close friends. Nothing else. Promise?’
He nods solemnly. ‘I’ll always be your friend, Emma. You can rely on that.’
Where have I heard that before, I wonder.
43. DESSI, Melbourne, a week later
My final score is good enough to get me into Monash Arts. Hannah also reports that Emma’s art folio was judged as one of this year’s best and will be hung in the National Gallery with the other finalists. If only we could discuss this. But Emma still isn’t talking.
Dessi's Romance Page 18
