by Kate Gordon
My heart is broken; it’s broken; it’s broken and I can’t breathe.
He grabbed me by the elbow. “Come with me,” he said, fiercely.
He dragged me around the side of Bryony's house and sat me down on a little wooden bench. Dimly, I wondered how he knew the bench was here.
As the realisation hit me, I started breathing, finally, but it was too fast, too fast, too fast. I needed to stop. I had to stop. And my heart. It had collapsed. It had crumpled.
“Madeleine.” Tim's voice was gentler now. I could feel his hand on my shoulder. “Maddy?”
I couldn’t speak.
“Maddy, you know she’s my girlfriend, right? She’s been my girlfriend for nine months.” He didn't even look ashamed. “We hooked up the night after the party when—”
“When you and I met?” I managed. The world beyond my eyes was rocking and swaying and my knees were so, so soft. I had to sit down.
Tim nodded. “Yes. But — Maddy: 'You and I' … you know we were never a thing, don't you? I mean, yeah, we kissed but that was just a bit of fun. You must have known you're not my type. I mean, look at you.”
“What's — wrong with me?” I croaked, my head in my hands.
Tim shook his head. “Maddy,” he said. “You’re fat. Surely you know that.”
Of course I knew that. I’ve always been fat. It’s just the way I am and, despite — back then — wishing I didn’t have a visible belly line in tight dresses, I was okay with it. I called myself fat. It’s just a descriptor — like tall, or blonde. I knew that Tim knew I was fat, too. I just didn’t think he minded. He didn’t seem to mind, when he was kissing me. I wiped away tears, as Tim went on. “It's just Bryony and I … you have to be able to see we're a better match. I never meant to make you think that you and I… Yeah.”
That was it. No “sorry”. No apology at all for stringing me along and breaking my heart. Only a suggestion that this, somehow, was my fault. Because I misunderstood the situation. And because I wasn't the “right sort of girl” for him. Because I looked like Mischa McPhee. Because Bryony looked like Mandy Moore.
“You never liked me?” I gulped.
Not enough air.
Tim's forehead wrinkled. His mouth twisted into a little sneer. “Don't be pathetic, Maddy. Of course I like you. You're a great girl. But that's it. It was never going to be more than that. All right? So, you're just going to need to get over it. Get a grip of yourself. Okay?”
Tim stood up and started to walk away. Then he stopped and turned around and, for a moment, my stupid heart lifted a little. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe he was going to come back to me and say, “I'm sorry, Maddy. Bryony might be a better fit for me but dammit, I love you.”
“I just wanted to say, everyone keeps saying how much you look like Mischa McPhee,” he said. He shook his head. “Who the hell is Mischa McPhee?”
33
And that was the last thing Tim O'Reilly ever said to me. The day after the party, Bryony went with Tim and his family on a holiday to Fiji. Last I heard, after uni, they moved together to London and started a bespoke stockbroking firm for artists.
Joe dragged me home, after the party. He held me until I could breathe again. He left me with Dad. When I could speak again, I told Dad to go away and I lay in my bed. The sheets were cool. I breathed. I breathed and I cried and I told Dad and Joe to leave, whenever they came close.
But Dad and Joe aren't the kind of people who will put up with being avoided.
Three days after the party, as I lay staring at the wall, there was a knock at the door.
I ignored that knock, and the next one, too and I pulled my doona even more tightly around my head.
I was so ashamed of how I had behaved. So embarrassed. I didn’t want to see anyone.
The only thing in the world I had to be grateful for was the lock on the inside of my bedroom door. I’d never thought to use it before. But now it kept the world safely outside. My door was the only strong thing in this whole mess.
The knocking stopped. I breathed.
Then, there was a strange sort of whirring noise. And then an extremely loud crash.
I looked up to see Joe and Dad standing at my bedroom door.
Except that my bedroom door was now on my bedroom floor.
Joe held an electric drill.
“What the actual hell?” I cried. “You broke my room!”
“You left us no choice, Madeleine,” Dad said. He strode inside and stood by my bed, hands on hips. “You're coming with us,” he said.
“No, I'm—”
“Maddy,” Joe snapped. I don't think I'd ever heard him snap before. “Don't make us ask twice. We are holding power tools and we will not hesitate to use them on your books. Or your CDs. You are getting up, getting dressed, and we are going to Sticky Fingers. You are not going to let Tim O'Reilly ruin your life. We are going to eat our body weight in macarons. Then we are going to go out dancing. And we will never again let you lose your heart to a boy or girl who doesn't deserve it.”
“Anyone who doesn't see how wonderful you are is not worth the ground you walk on, Poppet,” said Dad. “They say love is blind. It doesn't have to be. From now on, choose someone who deserves you.”
“Choose someone who loves you, just for you,” Joe added.
“I don't think I'll be choosing anyone, for quite some time,” I said.
“Then choose us,” Joe said, slinging his arm around my dad's shoulder. “The best two humans you could ever hope to have in your life. Pick us and come dancing.”
I let myself smile. Just a small one. “All right, Joe. You never give up, do you?”
“Not on you, Mads. I'll never give up on you.”
Dad sat down on my bed, then. He pushed my greasy hair from my forehead. “I’m sorry, Maddy,” he said, softly. “Sorry and worried. I’d like you to go to the doctor, once we’re all danced out.”
“Why–“ I began.
Dad shook his head. “I know this,” he said. “I know this feeling you have. It’s why, sometimes, I lock myself in my study and stare out the window. I’m not always working. Sometimes, the world gets too overwhelming. That’s when you need help.”
I did what Dad suggested. I went to the doctor. I went to a therapist.
It helped.
It helped me and it helped me to help Joe, after his car was run into by a drunk driver on the Brooker, and he spent the next year in and out of hospital, sometimes wishing he had not survived.
It helped, but it wasn’t a cure. Sometimes, it comes back.
It always comes back.
34
Pete is talking. I'm not listening. I stopped listening the moment he mentioned Tim's name.
Most days, I can keep the anxiety at bay. I have medication. I have Joe. I still see a therapist, when I need to. I cope. I had experienced a small amount of anxiety, my whole life. Maybe it was Mum leaving that planted the seed in me. Maybe it was just something that was always going to be part of me, like it was part of Dad. Whatever the case, the thing with Tim made it go into overdrive, and it’s never really gone away. But most days, I cope.
I want to cope today.
I tell myself to breathe. That helps.
I play my theme song in my head.
That helps.
I’m still not quite okay.
“Maddy? Are you … all right?”
Pete is looking at me with genuine concern. He really is nice. Too nice to be friends with Tim O'Reilly.
I shake myself. I am okay. I have to be okay. Just because Tim is back from overseas doesn't mean anything. Tim is my history — my painful, embarrassing, heartbreaking history — but he is not my now.
I breathe. I’m not okay. Not yet. I thought I was. I really thought I could be over it. This whole project has actually helped me to let go of so much. Most of the time, now, I’m fine. And now … I just had a moment. And that’s okay. It’s okay to feel this stuff. And I’m okay enough, now, to pretend.
“I'm fine,” I say, smiling brightly at Pete. “Tim O'Reilly? Who the hell is he?”
Pete looks confused. “But he said he knew you…”
I shake my head. “I know lots of people. I've got lots of friends. Amazing friends. Amazing life. And on that note—” I stand up. “Places to go. Tell your friend — Tom, was it?”
“Tim.”
“Right. Tell Tim that I'm sorry I don't remember him. He mustn't have made an impact on my life. And thanks for actually meeting up with me this time, Pete. You're lovely. And you will find a girl who loves listening to you talk about finance; who loves your dog and your mum and dad. You will find a girl who loves you for just exactly who you are. Don't stop looking until you find her.”
And then I leave.
The bitter night air hits me with a smack in the face and I blame the cold for making me cry.
Tim O'Reilly is a ghost. He is a figment of my old life, just a memory. He's not real. What's real is me and this city street and that chilly air. This place. This messy, beautiful life.
And so, I wipe away the tears and I hold my head up high and I walk down to the pier, where I turn right towards Salamanca. And instead of going up Kelly's Steps to my house in Battery Point, I stop at the Arts Centre. I let myself in. It's dark and deathly quiet but I've never felt more comfortable and safe in a place than I do here. I walk straight to the unisex toilets; straight to cubicle three. I sit down. I close my eyes and I let out a silent scream.
And it helps.
And then I look at the graffiti.
My breath catches.
It's grown again.
I smile as I read it. “I saw the posters. Wow. I can't believe how much effort you're putting into finding me. But I'm scared to show you who I am.”
I grab my pen and I scrawl below this, “You don’t have to be afraid.”
35
I’m dreaming.
I’m trapped in a tiny, dark room, with no windows or doors.
No air.
It’s a dream I’ve had often since the anxiety got bad.
I’m happy to wake up to a butter-sunbeam Saturday morning.
Until I remember. This Saturday is the Saturday when Jacqueline Grant is coming to do my gardening.
Good golly. Why on earth did I let Mrs Hurley talk me into this?
I wish, now that I’d had the guts to stand up to her. Some days, I can deal with Mrs Hurley. Other days, she’s just too terrifying.
For a fleeting, ridiculous, moment, I imagine Mrs Hurley as a mother-in-law. And I shudder. Just another reason Jacqueline and I would never be a good match.
Not that I ever thought we would be. I don't want her to be my girlfriend! I don't even want her to be my friend, and I definitely don't want her to come to my house.
If only Dad was home, but he’s at a work conference and isn’t due back til this afternoon.
I am alone. I will be alone with Jacqueline Grant. I want to disappear.
And maybe I can! Maybe I can disappear. She's only doing the gardens. The gardens are outside the house. There is no reason why Jacqueline should need to come inside the house. I can go out! I can leave her a note on the door: “Gone off to conduct my fabulous life. Have fun pruning!” I can go and chat to Kiefer and read my book for a few hours, and then I'll return and Dad and I will have neat rosebushes and Mrs Hurley will be happy and Jack Grant will be gone.
I'm so relieved I'm almost giddy. But I don't have much time. I'm still in my pyjamas, my hair looks like it belongs on a frazzled bison, and, also, I'm starving. I have a lot to do in half an hour. “Come on, Ellie,” I say, briskly. “I’ll feed you, but then Mummy has to go straight to the shower and get herself ready to go out, which I know is unusual at this time on a Saturday morning, but we are living in unusual times, you and I, and there's this woman—”
My speech is cut off by the doorbell.
“Who's that?” I ask Ellie, crossly, as she goes to investigate. Joe will be in bed, and Britta will be at soccer or dancing. Shelley is at work.
The only person it could possibly be is Dad.
He must have returned early and forgotten his house keys. He does that all the time, because he is an absent-minded professor.
“Is it your Poppy?” I call after Ellie. I skip down the stairs. Dad can come with me on my outing, while Jacqueline gardens! I can't think of a better way to spend a day off. I launch myself at the front door and turn the knob, a huge smile plastered on my face.
The smile plummets. My stomach hits the floor. My knees turn to spaghetti.
Standing on my front doorstep is not my father.
Standing on my front doorstep, in old jeans and a hole-riddled jumper, is Jacqueline Grant.
Her hair is mussed and she has bags beneath her eyes. She's wearing scuffed desert boots and has a leather satchel over her shoulder. I can see pruning shears poking out. She is looking at me tiredly, grumpily, as if she wishes she was anywhere in the world but here.
And … Jacqueline Grant should not be here now. She is thirty minutes early. Nobody is thirty minutes early on a Saturday morning.
And I am wearing Dr Seuss pyjamas and my hair is bison-like and I have slobber on my chin. And possibly chocolate. Probably chocolate. Usually chocolate. And, of course, I don't care what Jacqueline Grant thinks, but still ... I still don't want her to think it.
I try and surreptitiously run my hand through my messy hair but my fingers get stuck in the knots. I engage in an epic, minute-long battle to disentangle them.
Jacqueline clears her throat. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I snarl. “You're early.” I cross my arms over my chest, in an attempt to at least partially obscure The Sneetches.
“Mum said nine,” Jacqueline said. “I thought I was on time.”
“She told me nine thirty,” I retort.
“Oh well. I'm here now.” Jacqueline looks around the garden. “And it's probably a good thing I am here this early. There's a lot to do. You've really let it go, haven't you?”
“We have not!” I fight back. “Dad and I were just going for a New … Wild garden … experience. It's all the rage in France. I like it this way. It's only your mother who doesn't like it.”
I imagine I see the faintest flicker of a smile on Jacqueline Grant's lips. “Yes, Mum is quite … particular about gardening. You know she made me measure the sides of the lawn once? To make sure I was cutting the edges to be perfectly parallel to each other? And we only had a thirty-centimetre ruler… So that was fun.”
“That's ridiculous,” I gasp, laughing. But then I catch myself. What am I doing? This is fast approaching an Actual, Normal Conversation. This must stop. “So, I was going to go … out...” I point at the street for emphasis.
“I can see. You’re all dressed for a lovely outing.”
I scowl. “After I got dressed. Obviously.”
Jacqueline shakes her head. “Fine. But I have to tell you, this will go much more quickly if you help me. I hadn't realised how bad a shape the place is in. There's no way I'll get it all done in one day by myself. I'd have to come back next weekend as well.”
“Next weekend?” No. Not going to happen. “Okay,” I say, quickly. “I'll help. Just let me get changed.”
“Why?” The corner of Jacqueline's mouth is twitching. “I'm sure Sneetch PJs are all the rage for gardening, in France.”
“Shut up,” I snap. “And start pruning. I'll be with you in a minute.”
By which time I plan to look ravishing.
Not for Jacqueline Grant's benefit, though. Obviously.
It’s only once I’ve gone back inside, closing the door behind me, that I realise I didn’t feel anxious at all talking to Jacqueline. Annoyed, definitely, and grumpy. But somehow … calm, too.
It doesn’t mean anything.
I turn on my ancient stereo, press play on a Mischa McPhee CD, and try and forget about the unsettling feeling I’m having — that there’s something about “Jack” Grant that jus
t feels right.
36
“I’m useless at this.”
“Not completely. Your gardening skills could serve as a cautionary tale to any prospective horticulturalists? So that’s a use for them?”
I'm laughing.
Pigs are flying, Vanilla Ice had more than one hit, and I am actually laughing at Jack Grant's jokes. It’s an alternate universe. Or the apocalypse.
Jacqueline grunts as she pulls out a huge “weed”.
Up until a few minutes ago, I thought it was a pretty climbing flower.
I'm laughing so hard tears are running down my face. I wipe them away. I didn't spend five minutes putting on mascara to have it ruined by Jacqueline's jokes.
I didn't spend five minutes on my mascara for Jack at all. Or ten minutes picking the perfect gardening sundress. I didn't do any of that for Jacqueline Grant. Because that would imply that I like her. And I do not.
But she is funny.
I gingerly reach down to pull up another weed.
“Stop!” Jacqueline says, holding out a hand like a traffic conductor.
I flinch away. “What? I was just helping with the weeding.”
“Maddy, that isn't a weed. That's a King's Lomatia — a Lomatia Tasmanica — it's a Tasmanian native. That's just a juvenile one, but the life-span of these plants should be around three hundred years.”
“Oh.” I give the plant a little pat. “Sorry, Lomatia.” I look up at Jacqueline. She has a streak of mud on her cheek. It would look kind of cute, if she wasn't Jacqueline Grant. “So, how do you know so much about plants? I can't imagine they teach you about Lomatia Tasmanica at law school.”
Jacqueline shakes her head. “No, they don't, but knowing a heap of traditional plant names did help me with my Latin exams. No, I've just always been into horticulture. My dad loved gardening; ran a nursery. He used to take me to bonsai classes when I was little. And we used to prune the hedges together, into topiary animals. Mum hated it. And now, ironically, Mum spends half her life making her garden look perfect. No topiary, though. I always wanted to be a landscape gardener, actually, not a lawyer.”
