Her memory of who had bought which items was spot-on, as it was for names and faces. She could always greet her regular clients with their name and questions like ‘How did that maths exam go?’
Adele and Skye were especially memorable. Adele favoured the nineties gothic look, but without going over the top. Tamara was particularly happy with what Adele had chosen to put on hold, because she’d managed to steer her away from black for once. Skye was fine featured and quieter than Adele, a bit unsure of herself. Her red hair made her stand out in a crowd and Tamara often noticed her hanging out in the mall with her friends. Tamara enjoyed helping them both—it was always great to make a teenage girl smile.
There was nothing about Tamara’s job that she didn’t like. When she glanced out through the two-way mirror at her store, she felt a surge of satisfaction. Angelic Threads was looking its best. The coat-hangers all faced the correct way, and there were no garments on the floor. She liked everything neat and tidy: all the clothes arranged by colour, sizing and type. At home, she liked her own clothes in the exact same way.
The shop’s beeper sounded as a deliveryman appeared at the door. Tamara greeted him. She couldn’t wait to see this season’s collection. A fresh start—just the sort of thing she liked.
Once the three big boxes of new clothes were sitting in the back room, Tamara washed and dried her hands, then took out a Stanley knife and slit open the brown tape that held the first box closed.
The beeper sounded again: someone had entered the shop.
‘Damn,’ she muttered. Shutting the box, she fluffed her hair and smoothed her top before pasting on a smile and entering the shop to help her customer.
An elderly woman stood at the counter. It had been twenty-seven years, but Tamara recognised the same neat bun, out-of-fashion clothing and set features. Although her hair was greyer now and her shoulders slightly more stooped, Angela Thompson’s expression hadn’t changed.
‘Mum,’ Tamara said. With the counter between them, neither of them moved to embrace each other. Then, clumsily, her handbag knocking against the counter, Angela moved forward, one arm outstretched as if to draw her daughter in for a kiss on the cheek. Tamara shifted enough to leave her mother’s gesture flailing in mid-air. Angela dropped her arm and glanced around, looking uncomfortable.
‘What are you . . . ?’ Tamara couldn’t help gaping at the woman as if she was a hallucination. ‘How did you find me?’
An image flashed through her mind of leaving the house in Whitfield Street.
‘Hello, Tamara. How are you?’ Angela set her handbag on the counter.
Tamara looked down at it, noting the black vinyl peeling at the corners. Old, used and well worn. Pretty much like the woman standing in front of her.
Angela glanced around again. ‘How long have you worked here?’
‘For twenty-something years. I started as a junior assistant and now I’m the manager.’ Tamara needed Angela to understand what she’d achieved.
‘Congratulations,’ Angela said with a ghost of a smile to show that she was genuine. ‘You’ve done well for yourself.’ She nodded to emphasise her words.
Pride washed over Tamara. No thanks to you or Dad. The silence stretched out between them.
Three women entered the shop and started flicking through the racks. Tamara desperately wanted to ignore them and find out what the hell her mother wanted. A rush of worthlessness pierced through her. In one short moment, by walking into the shop, had her mother taken away all the work she’d done with Doctor Kerr?
A customer brushed past Tamara. ‘Excuse me.’
Swallowing hard, Tamara tried to pull herself back from the edge of the abyss. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ Her tone was uncharacteristically short. ‘It’s nearly closing time.’
‘Just browsing,’ the woman answered. The other two didn’t even bother to respond.
‘I guess you’re wondering why I’m here,’ said Angela.
‘Not really,’ Tamara lied. Of course she wanted to know! Why make contact after all these years, given the way they’d parted?
She’s come to remind you of how invisible you are, the Tamperer whispered. How unworthy.
‘I’ve got some bad news,’ Angela said gently. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk? The back room?’
‘No.’ Tamara glanced at her watch. ‘I’m the only one here. My last junior left a few days ago and I haven’t had a chance to replace her.’
‘Oh.’ Angela paused. Her face seemed to sag in defeat. ‘Is there somewhere we can meet after you finish?’
‘Just tell me, Mum,’ Tamara insisted. She had to know.
Sadness and pain flitted across the older woman’s face. ‘I didn’t want it to be like this,’ she said. ‘Your dad died two days ago.’
Tamara felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. She couldn’t get enough air.
‘I thought you’d want to know,’ said Angela, tapping her thumbs together.
Tamara tried to think of the appropriate response—her brain was fuzzy with all the cutting words Evan used to yell at her. They echoed so loudly, she wanted to put her hands over her ears and block them out. Things like: ‘You’ll never amount to anything!’ ‘Stupid, that’s what you are. Plain stupid.’ ‘I’m so disappointed in you.’
Then there had been the first major blow-up. She’d been hanging around the train station with a group of kids who were smoking and drinking. One of the boys had a can of spray paint in his hand, so when the cops had rounded them up that time, there had been no way out for Tamara.
Evan had brought her home in a cold silence and then got stuck into her. ‘We’ve given you a home, and this is how you thank us? I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything else of you. You’ve been trouble since you were born. Crying and squawking so none of us could get any sleep. Then, nothing but disruption.’
Tamara remembered glancing at her mum, trying to catch her eye, hoping she’d make him stop. But Angela hadn’t been any help—she’d just stood there with her hands over her mouth as if she was stopping her own tirade.
‘God knows we’ve tried to make a difference to you,’ Evan ranted. ‘To bring you up right, give you a good start in life. And you repay us like this.’
Until she was a teenager, Tamara had tried to be a good girl, tried to make her parents love her. As a young child she’d snuggled against them at night, but they’d responded by pushing her away. When she was a bit older, she was often sent to bed early for making too much noise, for talking too much or for her room being untidy. It never was, though; her dad was just a clean freak. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place,’ he would say.
On other nights, Tamara took herself quietly to bed while her parents watched TV in the darkened lounge room. It was always loud, so they never heard her crying.
She did her chores diligently and tried to do well at school. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the brightest child in the classroom—a fact that Evan never let her forget.
When she was thirteen, Tamara decided that, no matter what she did or how hard she worked at school or home, making her parents love her was impossible. There wasn’t any point in trying. So instead of being hurt, she got angry. She used to chant to herself: ‘You are the only one in your school whose parents don’t love you.’ Then she would ball her small hands into fists and pummel her thighs.
Turning thirteen brought her a whole new understanding of life. An older boy told her she was pretty, and those few words made her the happiest she’d ever felt. She wanted him to keep saying nice things to her. Which he did, especially when he wanted something. So, later, when he put his hand down her pants, she let him. If something so little meant he kept telling her he loved her, that she was beautiful and that he would never leave her, then she’d do whatever he wanted.
Wagging school with her boyfriend and smoking cigarettes had been the start of a downward spiral, which graduated to drinking and sex. She craved his words and kisses more a
nd more; surely they proved he loved her. Still, she was happy to take any boy’s attention. By the time her parents threw her out at sixteen, she had a reputation.
Tamara hated thinking about that time in her life. She wasn’t proud of it. The memories made her feel unhappy and out of control.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to her mother, appalled that her nose was beginning to tingle with the tell-tale sign of tears. She sniffed and lifted her chin, imagining that she did not care.
‘Excuse me?’ A lady holding a dress elbowed her way in front of Angela, glaring at her as she pushed by. ‘Excuse me? Can I try this on? Where are your change rooms?’
Tamara saw dejection in Angela’s face as she dropped her head to her chest and tried to make herself invisible. She looked as though she’d shrunk inches.
‘Of course you can,’ Tamara told the rude customer in a soothing voice. ‘If you’d like to come this way?’ She ushered the lady to the change rooms and held the curtain back for her. ‘Let me know if you need another size,’ she said with a smile.
‘Yes, if you’re not too busy talking about your personal life,’ the woman snapped, disappearing into the curtained-off space.
Heat rushed to Tamara’s face as embarrassment and anger threatened to overwhelm her. How dare the customer say that. She’d just been told that her father had died! It was a bloody miracle she was acting normally.
Tamara’s watch told her it was now past closing time, which meant that she was actually doing the customer a favour by letting her try the dress on.
See? Doctor Kerr has helped you, the Tam said. Although you’re feeling all this now, you’ll get through it, you always have. Stay strong.
Closing her eyes, Tamara tried to follow Doctor Kerr’s advice, progressively concentrating on every part of her body from her scalp to her toes. Her psychologist had told her time and time again that she needed to learn to sit with her feelings so she didn’t run out and overindulge by drinking, eating or picking up men. Occasionally drugs had found their way into her life, but she never really had the money to indulge the habit. She’d preferred men, because even though loving words spoken in the heat of the moment were cheap, she felt good whenever someone liked her enough to sleep with her.
But she’d been getting better. She didn’t do those things anymore. She was with Craig now. As she kept breathing deeply, her shoulders dropped and her head grew clearer. She stared at a spot on the carpet as she counted to twenty.
‘I need another size up in this, please,’ said the customer, thrusting the skirt through the change-room curtain.
‘Certainly. I’ll be right back,’ Tamara said, feeling much calmer as she took the garment from the woman and headed back to the sale rack.
‘Tamara?’ said Angela, standing in her way. ‘Please. I know you didn’t leave on the best of terms, but I’d like it if you would come to the funeral.’
What Tamara heard was: ‘Please come, please come, please come.’ The Tam wanted to give her mum a comforting hug; the Tamperer wanted to shove her out the door. Push her out of her life forever. How dare Angela waltz back in and upset the fragile equilibrium Tamara had built around herself.
‘Funeral . . .’ The word faded on her lips.
‘Yes, on Monday afternoon,’ Angela said, picking up her handbag. ‘Two-thirty at the church on Mundairy Road.’ She looked at Tamara unhappily. ‘Not that your father was one to believe in a higher power, but I feel we should give him a good Christian service. Someone needs to save him.’ She put her hand out to touch Tamara, but pulled it back quickly. ‘Think about it,’ she said, before leaving the store.
Tamara put her hand to the part of her arm that Angela would have touched.
‘Did you find one?’ asked the customer, peering around the curtain and jolting Tamara back to her work.
‘Uh, yes. One moment. Here we go.’ She walked to the change rooms and handed it over.
‘Oh, this doesn’t fit either,’ the lady said without even trying it. She came out and went to her two friends. ‘Come on, girls, it’s after five. Time for a wine.’ As the ladies left, Tamara stared after them, unseeing. Her feet, as if of their own accord, took her to the front of the store to watch Angela leave the shopping centre.
It’s time to go home, Tamara’s brain whispered, trying to counteract the barrage of emotional memories that had hit her as soon as her mother had walked in. The horrible sensation of never being loved, never being seen and never being understood made it hard for her to breathe. Her hands shook. As she methodically counted the till and balanced the day’s takings, she knew she wasn’t the same woman she’d been an hour ago.
Everything had changed.
So, how could she go home? It was just like she’d thought this morning: things with Craig were too good. She was becoming too normal. She’d known her insecurities would have to rear up again soon. And now, here they were.
Go home, said the Tam.
Home. Well, where the hell was that? the Tamperer replied.
You’ve got a home. With Craig. Go home to him, the Tam repeated.
No, no, no, the Tamperer whispered. You’re on a hiding to nothing, going back there.
Chapter 6
Sliding her key into the lock, Lauren opened the front door, stepped inside and closed her eyes, enjoying the air-conditioning. As the sweat on her top lip dried, she revelled in the sensation for a couple more seconds before laughing quietly at herself. She was about to go for a run, so she’d soon be hot and sweaty again; no point in trying to stay cool now.
Throwing her handbag and briefcase down in the study, she pulled her shoes off and, hooking her fingers into the heels, took the stairs two at a time then jogged into her bedroom. She stripped off her clothes and dropped them into the laundry basket behind the bathroom door, then reached for her gym pants and top.
Passing the mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself and stopped. She knew that she’d lost a bit of weight—her waistbands were looser than they had been six months ago—but the dark rings under her eyes took her by surprise. This was what Stu had been talking about. What was happening to her? Why was she this tired? Why did she keep having that stupid nightmare?
And which of her biological parents was reflected in her own eyes?
The last question took her by surprise. They’d been doing that lately—popping up unexpectedly. But she knew that wasn’t unusual. In her online research, she’d learned that questions about different physical and personality characteristics were common for adoptees.
Staring at herself a bit longer, she wondered if her birth mother was a redhead or if her biological father had the same blue eyes.
She heard the front door open and shut, then footsteps in the hall. ‘Hi babe, I’m home!’ Dean called up the stairs.
‘Hey, yourself. I’m in the bedroom!’ Lauren went out to meet him on the landing. After twenty-three years together, her stomach still flipped every time he smiled at her.
Of course, like all couples, they argued sometimes, but not about anything major. Not since the time when they hadn’t spoken to each other for days after disagreeing about their house loan. Neither had been willing to give in, so for three nights they’d gone to bed with their backs turned to each other. Finally, Dean had made her talk and they’d moved past that. She hoped it would never happen again. Now, if one of them didn’t agree with what the other was suggesting, they always made the time to sit down and talk it through.
‘How was your day?’ Dean murmured against her lips.
‘Busy. Stressful.’ She pulled him closer. ‘I’m worried about a boy in my class. Yours?’
‘Flat out, like you.’ He pulled away and gazed down at her before putting his hand to her forehead and smoothing the worry lines away. ‘You’re going for a run, aren’t you? Don’t worry about the little boy now. Leave that at school. You can run all that stuff away. Are you tired?’
‘I look that way, don’t I?’ She walked into the bedroom to pick up her iPod and headpho
nes from the bedside table, along with the sun cream. She handed it to Dean. ‘Can you rub some of this onto the back of my shoulders?’
‘Getting towards the end of term, I guess.’ He squeezed some cream into his hand. ‘Turn around.’ He paused. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, running his finger over a small lump on the back of her arm.
‘What is it?’
‘Maybe a little pimple, but it’s sort of brownish. I haven’t noticed it before. When’s your next dermatologist appointment?’
‘In a few weeks. I’ll see if they can squeeze me in earlier.’
‘Sounds like a plan. The sun loves a red-haired, fair-skinned chick. All those sun kisses you’ve got across your nose.’ He gently turned her face to him and kissed her freckles.
‘Hmm, but I don’t love the sun.’
As he smeared the cool cream onto her back, Lauren shivered slightly before his hands warmed her. She tightened the iPod holder around her upper arm and slipped the device into it, before holding out her hand for Dean to squeeze some more cream into her palm. She rubbed it into her face, checking in the mirror for white smudges. She was so careful about putting on sun cream; surely the pimple was nothing.
Dean set down the tube and wiped his hands before taking off his tie and shirt.
Their eyes met in the dressing-table mirror. Lauren raised her eyebrows.
‘What?’ he asked with half a smile.
‘Nothing. Just perving.’
He laughed and tugged her towards him. ‘And you’re looking good too. You know what lycra does to me,’ he added, running his eyes over her body.
‘Ew!’ She crinkled her brow.
He sighed theatrically. ‘But it will have to wait. I have dinner to make, you need to de-stress, and we have children due home at any moment. The joys of parenting.’ He kissed her again.
The Missing Pieces of Us Page 5
