* * *
Three hours. That’s how long the quiet lasts.
At six-thirty, a car door slams outside my window.
‘Back it into the driveway, Julia!’ comes Ian’s voice at top volume in through my open window.
‘What do you think I’m doing? I have to start the car before I can back it into the driveway,’ Julia yells back. ‘And I still think it will be easier to attach the trailer if it’s in the street behind the car.’
‘I know you think that, you’ve told me six times. But which one of us has done this before? Me.’
‘You haven’t. Your father hooked it up last time.’
‘We did it together.’
They have a trailer now? What the hell for? I wonder idly as I gingerly attempt to move my head. It bursts into throbbing agony, which is nothing less than I deserve, seeing as I drank the world dry of white wine last night. Freya is still asleep, her face pressed into the crook of my neck, and not covered in sick. I consider this a very promising start to the day.
‘If we’re going to make it to the guy’s house in time to pick it up — and he is expecting us at eight — load it and then get to the beach, we need to get a move on, so back the car up, Julia.’
‘If you’ll stop ordering me around for five seconds, I will,’ she snaps. ‘This bloody jet ski is more trouble than it’s worth. I don’t see why you can’t just rent one, like everyone else.’
They’ve bought a jet ski? Of course they have.
‘Because, Julia, the amount I plan to use it, it doesn’t make economic sense to rent one.’
‘You’ll use it twice then hurt yourself and lose interest. We both know that. It’ll be dressage all over again.’
‘That’s not fair. You know Boadicea wasn’t right in the head. That horse had a mean streak a mile wide. My back issues were entirely separate.’
I hear Julia rev the engine twice, then back her car around and into her driveway, where she obviously almost hits Ian, judging by his panicked yelps. If she ever does run him over, and I do feel like it’s just a matter of time, I would not feel comfortable giving evidence for the defence.
While it’s definitely irritating to be woken so often by Julia and Ian carrying on like a pair of upper-middle-class Jerry Springer guests, I do have a sort of grudging respect for their lack of self-consciousness. In a suburb where people mostly keep to themselves, airing all your dirty laundry on the street is a surprisingly effective way of avoiding being the subject of gossip. No one ever talks about Julia and Ian, because they are an open book. Sure, they’re a boring, aggressive audiobook that comes on far too early and you can’t make them stop, but I rather admire the way they live their lives out loud.
When my stomach flops over alarmingly, and I know I’m about to be sick, it’s not a great surprise. When it comes to spreading gastro, all the hand-washing in the world is no match for a toddler who sleeps more or less in your mouth. I carefully extract myself from Freya’s pestilent embrace and with grim resignation pad quickly down the hall to the bathroom.
* * *
The next forty-eight hours are endurance parenting at its finest. Freya doesn’t get sick again, but at ten o’clock that morning the doorbell rings and I open the front door to find a very green Tim being returned by Troy. He doesn’t quite hand his son over using a pair of tongs, but he doesn’t even come in the front gate.
‘Poor kid wants you, Em,’ he calls from the footpath. ‘Think he’s about to come down with it. You look rough.’
‘Yep,’ I say, and bring Tim in. I barely have the energy to stand. There’s nothing left for talking to Troy about anything.
Tim only just makes it to the bathroom. I hand the room over to him for the afternoon and I sit in the hall with a bucket, emptying it as necessary. Freya lies in my bed limply gazing as the iPad plays episode after episode of Peppa Pig and Ben and Holly and the endless stream of cheery British voices fails to drown out the disgusting sounds Tim and I are making.
On Sunday evening Freya manages to nibble on some dry toast, but Tim and I are still on the Gastrolyte. Mercifully, late that night the vomiting comes to a halt.
I shift a sleeping Freya back to her bed, now that she’s twenty-four hours clear of throwing up, and tonight Tim and I lie in my bed in an exhausted heap, sucking our icy poles and watching The Neverending Story.
‘I’m glad I came home early,’ Tim says.
‘Me too, matey. It’s better to be together when we’re sick.’
‘Dad’s not very good at looking after people,’ he says.
‘No, well, everyone has different strengths. Dad’s better at . . .’ I have to think.
‘Juice?’ offers Tim. ‘He’s really good at making up new juices.’
‘He is,’ I agree. ‘Very good at juice, your dad.’ I kiss Tim on the head and we return our attention to the boy-warrior Atreyu as he is knocked into the Sea of Possibilities.
Chapter Fourteen
None of us wakes until after nine o’clock on Monday morning. It is the latest I have slept in six years. We are all groggy and tired, and starting to regain our appetites, so I prescribe us another day of TV and whatever snacks we so desire.
I make that grand proclamation before considering the fact that we don’t have any good snacks in the house, and the idea of taking the kids to the supermarket makes my body threaten to restart the vomiting. So I send an SOS text message to my dad.
Since I’ve been single, I’ve made a point of not asking Dad for help every time I’d like to. He would help, that’s not the issue. I just feel like I should reserve the mayday calls for when things are really impossible.
This isn’t one of those times. I could put the kids in the car, drive to the shops, drag them around the supermarket with me as I fill the trolley, wait in line, load it all in the car and drive back home. But frankly, I’m totally shattered and I’d just rather not. I could order a home delivery of shopping but that won’t come until four, and we all have a post-gastro hunger that won’t wait.
Dad is thrilled to be asked. Within an hour he’s at the front door, loaded up with bags of raisin toast, chocolate biscuits, packets of fish fingers, two-minute noodles, oven fries and cans of lemonade.
‘The cavalry has arrived!’ he says, beaming.
‘Don’t come in,’ I say. ‘You’ll probably catch it too.’
‘I don’t catch gastro,’ he says. ‘I haven’t thrown up since the night before Uncle Jeremy’s wedding in 1981.’
This isn’t true. To be fair, he’s probably only thrown up a handful of times since then, but every time he tells us it’s the first time since the night before Uncle Jeremy’s wedding in 1981.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, following him down the hall to the kitchen. ‘It was really nice of you to do this.’
‘That’s all right, Emma, my love. That’s what dads are for.’
The kindness of this sentiment, the genuine belief that it’s a father’s responsibility to bring his daughter junk food when she’s well over thirty, just because she’s tired and she’s been sick and can’t be bothered to go get it herself — that’s what undoes me. I start to cry.
Dad puts his arms around me and just makes it worse. I stand and sob into the front of his shirt, while the kids look uncomfortable and nudge the plastic bags with their feet, trying to see which one contains the mini Milky Ways they have requested.
Eventually Dad extricates himself and locates the Milky Ways. He opens the back door, tears open the bag, flings the chocolates into the garden and shoos the kids out after them like puppies. Then he puts on the kettle, unpacks the shopping, and makes me four slices of buttered raisin toast and a strong cup of tea. I start to calm down.
‘No Lola today?’ he asks.
I start crying again. ‘No Lola any more at all. Helen told me I can’t have her again.’
‘Did she now?’ Dad says calmly. ‘Why was that?’
I hate telling him when I’ve done the wrong thing. But he can a
lways tell anyway, so I might as well fess up.
‘I sort of stopped taking her to her activities last week. And I didn’t tell Helen. Then I did tell Helen, but I did it when I was pissed, in her garden, in front of all Troy’s old friends. And I think I may have humiliated her.’
‘Emma.’ That’s all he needs to say and I am five years old again, and so ashamed. In one word it’s clear that I’ve let him down, I’ve let the family down, but most of all I’ve let myself down. I don’t think I’ve ever had that much power with my kids. Then again they’re not really in the business of doing things that bring shame on our family, at least not to this level.
‘You know why this happened, don’t you, love? You were showing off — trying to be the best at everything and in control of everything.’
‘I wasn’t!’ I’m outraged. ‘I was, as I have explained to everyone a thousand times, trying to do the right thing by my family.’
‘. . . while also showing Helen how you can manage three kids more easily than she can manage one.’
‘Maybe there was a bit of that initially, after Troy left me, but not any more, Dad. I know you think I shouldn’t have been looking after Lola so much, but I love her. I know that’s really twisted, but I do.’
‘I know you do, Ems. You’ve got so much love. They don’t know how lucky they’ve been, having you to help with their child. It’s an unorthodox arrangement, and I don’t think it’s a bad thing if it’s over, because I think you need to get on with other things now. But I’m sorry you’re so sad.’
‘What other things am I going to get on with?’ I ask. ‘All I am is a mother now, and not a very good one at that.’
‘That isn’t true. You’re still a person. You have friends. Maybe you could find a boyfriend. You have a job; you’re a very good editor.’
‘I’m not. I don’t even really work that much any more, Dad. I earn bugger all. Financially I’m completely reliant on Troy, still.’
‘Well, maybe you can move towards changing that,’ he says gently.
‘What, you mean go back to a publishing company job?’
‘Maybe, or just increase your freelance workload a bit, and look at working somewhere more professional than the park or your kitchen. There are lots of co-working thingummy places now. Keith’s son runs his business from one.’
‘What about Freya and Tim? Freya’s only at preschool a couple of days.’
‘I could help you look after her another day or two. I’m retired. What else am I going to do? I think Twitter can manage itself all right without me a couple of days a week. I’d like to help more. Maybe I could even take her to a ballet lesson or two.’ He’s got a little smile on his face.
Outside I hear Freya squeal with laughter, followed by a low noise that tells me Tim is doing his impersonation of a grumpy fish. It’s the first time they’ve played or laughed in days. Once again my eyes fill with tears.
‘I don’t know, Dad. Even without Lola I think I have enough on my plate. I’m helping organise this awful Fun Run at the school again, and I’m taking the kids camping on the weekend, if we can manage to continue to not throw up. And that’s probably a terrible idea. I can’t manage camping with two kids by myself. I’m only doing it because bloody Troy is taking them to some fancy camping festival thing and I want them to think I’m better. So I think it would be a mistake to try to take on more work. Everything I do at the moment is a mistake. I’m trying my best but I keep mucking everything up.’
‘Give yourself a break, love.’ Dad tears open a packet of chocolate biscuits, takes two and slides the pack across the table to me. ‘Stop trying to be the best and do your best at everything. I know Mum always told you and Laura that it’s important to do your best, but I’ve always thought doing your best all the time is a bit of a tiring proposition. Maybe try doing your second best for a bit.’
I think about it, while I eat three biscuits. Doing my second best. Not trying as hard all the time. It’s an idea. A terrifying idea, but maybe I could consider it. But things and people would suffer. That’s what Dad doesn’t understand.
‘Dad,’ I say, ‘if I ease up and stop trying so hard, like if I don’t try to sort out this — I don’t know, maybe you’d call it a feud, no, this dispute — with Helen and Troy, and I don’t start looking after Lola again, then it won’t be fair to the kids. I’m the only reliable parent they have. Me going to Troy’s house to get Lola and then take her back, it’s at least a chance for my kids to see their father sometimes. You know how often he cancels his weekends with them. At least this way he can’t avoid them completely.’
‘Yes, it would be hard for Tim and Freya if you gave up the Lola-sitting, I understand that,’ Dad says. ‘But if Troy is really determined to be a shit dad, and not give them the time they deserve, well, they’re going to figure that out eventually. That outcome isn’t up to you. You can’t keep juggling all the balls for everyone. Let Troy and Helen’s balls drop, love. Let them deal with that. And maybe you could pick up some other balls, more interesting, fulfilling balls.’
At this point the conversation seems to be veering dangerously into double entendre territory, so before I end up discussing which specific other balls I would consider handling, I decide it’s time to move on.
‘And as for my work, Dad, I don’t know if I should still be an editor. The pay is terrible, the scheduling is unreliable, and I’m not even that good at it.’
‘Do something else then.’
‘But that’s all I know how to do!’ I wail. I know as it comes out that I’ve pushed Dad’s sympathy to its limit.
‘Emma,’ he says, exasperated. ‘Come on. You are a bright capable girl. There are many things you can do, but you can’t do any of them unless you stop feeling so sorry for yourself. You are fine. You have two healthy children, a very nice house, and a lovely family, even if you are trying their patience at bit at the moment.’
‘It’s not that nice a house,’ I say sulkily. ‘It’s a complete tip. My children never, ever put anything away.’
‘Well, no, your perfectionist tendencies don’t appear to stretch to housekeeping,’ he agrees. ‘But that’s all right. I mean you’re not a hoarder. It’s not dangerous to live here.’
‘You’re too kind,’ I say.
From outside I hear shrieks of sugared delight.
‘I shouldn’t let them eat that whole bag of Milky Ways,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’m not obsessed with sugar, like Helen. But surely eighteen mini Milky Ways are too many.’
‘Oh leave them alone, Em,’ Dad scolds me. ‘They’ll stop eating when they’ve had enough. Kids need to work out their limits for themselves. How are they going to do that if you’re always hovering around, doing all their thinking for them? Mum and I always thought that was important, letting you two learn to figure things out for yourselves.’
‘I don’t do that,’ I say, realising as the words come out that I absolutely do. ‘And I don’t know what Mum did or didn’t do with us because she’s not here to tell me. Dad, it’s so unfair. How can I be a mum when I’ve forgotten so much about what Mum did for me?’
‘You haven’t forgotten. You might think you have, but you know, deep down. You’re doing it fine, Ems. Mum would say the same thing.’ His voice thickens. ‘She’d be very proud of you, but I think she’d say it’s time to let Troy and Helen and Lola do their own thing.’
He’s right. I do need to step away from my kids, and Lola, a bit more. The very thought fills me with panic, but I sit with the panic for a moment, and when it settles I realise I’m panicking because I don’t know who to be without them. It’s a very big thought and one that, for me to process, requires more biscuits.
‘Dad,’ I say, casually, ‘maybe you could help me out with the kids. I mean, not right away, because we’re going camping and I haven’t got much work right now, but maybe next week? I’ve been booked for an edit that’s running really late, so when it finally lands I’m going to need to turn it round fast. I always wor
k with the kids here, but I could do it quicker if I had some help with them.’
‘It would be a pleasure, love. Just say the word. And say the word, too, if you want any help with plans for the camping trip. I’ve still got my checklists from when we used to take you and Laura down to Kosciuszko. I can’t imagine anything much has changed since then.’
Dad stays for dinner, which is a joyous fish finger and two-minute noodle feast, and we all celebrate the fact that no one is being fed Gastrolyte through a syringe.
As I see him to the door, he turns suddenly and says, ‘Oh — Em, I nearly forgot. Laura says she wants to talk to you. She said she’s texted you but maybe you haven’t been getting them? I told her you were all sick and she said to call when you have time. She said to say she needs to hear more about your author. Is that the one writing the book you’re expecting?’
‘Ah, no,’ I say, ‘I think she means a different author.’
‘Righto then, call her and tell her about that author because she says she is keen to hear. She’s a very good sister. She seems more interested in your job than you are, Em!’
‘Yes, yes she does,’ I agree. He kisses me hard on the cheek, hugs me tightly, and heads home to watch Midsomer Murders.
My very good sister is not interested in my work. She only wants to know about what I did with Adam once she’d left the pub. I’m not sure I want to tell her. I’ve been receiving and studiously ignoring her texts, with the excuse that we have all been knee-deep in vomit, but I can’t put her off forever.
And I know what she’ll say.
* * *
The next morning Dad comes back bright and early to collect Freya. He thinks they should start hanging out together even before I have more work to do. They’re going to go to the beach, he tells me, and maybe the hardware shop too.
How to Be Second Best Page 20