Call Me Kismet

by PJ Mayhem

  ‘I think I know someone who might be a South Sydney fan like you.’ I was pretty sure from the way Frankie deflated at the score the other night that they had to be his team. Despite myself (rugby league, for Buddha’s sake!), I hear a little a smile creep into my voice.

  ‘Really? That’s a coincidence.’ Sammy sounds quite serious for ten.

  Environmental factors, I think, looking around the house. It’s so oppressively staged and sterile.

  ‘Maybe, but do you think there’s really such a thing as coincidences?’

  ‘Of course—it’s in the dictionary, Aunty Fee. Here, I’ll google it for you.’

  ‘No, don’t worry. I believe you. I meant something sort of different.’ I take another card from him.

  At around the fifth card, Sonja, who’d disappeared into the kitchen, returns. She’s got a look of such concentration on her face, making sure she doesn’t drop the tray holding three plates, all of which have a brightly iced cupcake. ‘Mummy helped me make these for you, Aunty Fee, but she said we can’t call them a—’

  ‘We’ll call them beautiful cakes because that’s what they look like to me.’ And they do, despite Sonja’s luminous, uneven icing and blobby piping.

  ‘Sonja and I gave you the candles early because we knew we weren’t allowed to give them to you today.’

  ‘You sneaks! Thank you. I love the candles but I love you two more.’ I bite into my cupcake and my teeth tingle from the pure sugar of the icing. The rest of me tingles from pure happiness.

  19

  ‘What? What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?’ I demand of Lionel.

  Lionel smiles. ‘Like what?’

  ‘It’s my carrot legs, isn’t it? I hate them, that’s why I hardly ever wear skirts.’ If I weren’t flipped back in the apricot recliner, legs in the air, I’d tuck them under me. ‘Sorry,’ I splutter immediately. I’ve no idea what came over me, talking to Lionel that way, especially after the high five he’d given me when I’d told him I’d learnt Frankie’s name, but Thuga and his mates have made me a little oversensitive about being looked at lately and soldiering on through my consumption seems to have eroded my filters. I take a breath and compose myself. ‘I just don’t like it when people look at me like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like that—all focussed and concentrating on me, like they’re thinking thoughts about me I don’t know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s just the way I am.’

  ‘I was just thinking it’s the first time I’ve seen you in a skirt, actually. And while it would be entirely inappropriate for me as a practitioner to make a comment on your legs, I can assure you, no one would ever think your legs were anything close to resembling carrots.’

  ‘Still, I don’t like them. Can’t we talk about something else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Frankie.’

  ‘But you just said you hadn’t seen him since the name exchange. When are you planning on going in again?’

  ‘Probably on the weekend. I was thinking maybe we could do some work to prepare me for that, taking it to the next stage.’

  ‘Can I ask you a question first?’ Lionel says after considering my suggestion for a moment.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’m pretty certain I know the answer but I want to be clear. Do you ever think that someone might be thinking something positive about you when they’re looking at you?’

  ‘Well … no, especially not when they’re really focussed.’

  ‘I thought as much. I’ve noticed you’re much more relaxed when you’re not aware anyone is looking at you. At ease with yourself.’

  My skin prickles and I can feel myself blushing. I blink my eyes to bat away unexpected tears.

  ‘I’d like to work with that,’ Lionel continues. ‘I have a feeling this might be where part of your anxiety stems from. Are you OK if we work through to see where that fear of being focussed on came from?’

  ‘I guess so.’ It’ll probably help with Situation Frankie in the long run too.

  I don’t ask for Positively but Lionel hands him to me then leads me back through time. I raise my right index finger to let him know I’m there.

  ‘Where are you, Kismet?’

  ‘Sitting on my bed, in the room I shared with Catherine.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Around four.’

  ‘Be precise, go there.’

  ‘Four and a half.’

  ‘Tell me, who is there with you?’

  ‘Catherine.’ My voice is quiet, meek, scared—my little girl self.

  ‘Just Catherine?’

  I nod for yes again and clutch Positively a little closer to me.

  We traverse my childhood with Catherine, travel through teenage years, enter early adulthood and end up at today. Lionel hears about how, under Catherine’s gaze, my ears were deformed, or their lobes at least, my top lip too thin, my nose too fat and flat, nostrils far too wide, my hands far too big for a girl—more like a man’s, my feet the ugliest to ever set foot on the earth (her pun, not mine), my hair mousy, too straight, too lank, my thighs had saddle bags, my freckles that are too freckly, how make-up makes me look like a whore; on and on it goes until we’re at today. I’m a mosaic of all my flaws plus the ones adult Catherine has added to the list: not acting my age and not dressing appropriately for it. I could go on. I don’t tell Lionel about my breasts—the ridicule of them coming, then the ridicule of them not coming enough. I really don’t want to draw his attention to my chest.

  ‘Catherine is a bitch,’ Lionel says. ‘Tell her that, Kismet.’

  Even under hypnosis I hesitate. She really can’t help who she is.

  ‘Tell her.’

  You know what? I think he’s right.

  ‘Fuck you, Catherine, you’re a fucking bitch. Who are you to say who I should be? Like you’re so fucking perfect.’ I don’t need to apologise to Spirit for expletives under hypnosis, I’m sure.

  ‘Good on you, Kismet. I told you you were making progress. I’m proud of you. It’s challenging work,’ Lionel says gently, once he’s led me out.

  I can’t say I feel entirely back when the buzzer goes but I hurriedly drag the half of me that’s still in another world out and get myself together.

  ‘Thanks, Lionel, I’ll see you next week.’ I sit Positively on the chair as I stand.

  ‘Take care and be kind to yourself, Kismet. If you’ll permit me, I’d like to give you a human hug. I think you could do with one.’

  ‘Sure.’ I stiffen slightly as Lionel wraps his arms around me. Not that there’s anything wrong with the way he does it. As I’ve mentioned, I’m not great with random acts of physical affection from most adults, especially men.

  On Saturday morning I wake from a nightmare. The PGGG had closed and been turned into a swanky bar, Frankie had disappeared and I hadn’t ever got any further than asking his name. It was another reminder that I don’t have all the time in the world, a message from my subconscious that I better get a move on with Frankie and look him in the eye when I do it. My eye isn’t fully recovered but it’ll have to do. Who knows when the chance won’t be there anymore?

  The next morning, the stars are aligning, everything really is working in absolute perfect harmony, and I’m certain I’ll see Frankie. The eyelashes I do have curl perfectly, my make-up glides on, even my hair is behaving itself. The affirming message of Transformation—your relationship with another is about to deepen from the Lovers’ Oracle only boosts my confidence.

  Frankie is spreadeagled at the refrigerator doors right in front of my yoghurt. On a sheet of newspaper on the floor next to his big Adidas-adorned feet are gaffer tape, a screwdriver, a Stanley knife and a handtowel. I’m not sure whether I should take a second to observe and appreciate his physicality before I run for my life. Is it OK to even think of letting my eyes linger when I’d been committing yoghurt adultery for a fortnight while I waited for my eye to c
lear up?

  Before I get the chance to do anything, Frankie turns and runs out to the store room.

  Three things cross my mind. Maybe he’s noticed me—or ‘felt’ my presence—and is rushing out to prepare my hostage quarters. He was probably multitasking, checking his implements of torture out on the shop floor while keeping an eye on things. Given our cosmic connection he was bound to know I’d be coming in. The efficiency is appealing, the plans to hold me hostage and torture me not so much. Obviously the whole nice and sweet to old ladies thing was just a ruse. How can I have been so naïve?

  Secondly, I wonder if it’s true what they say about big feet on a man.

  And thirdly, given the way he bounds around, could I even keep up with him if anything did happen?

  In truth more things cross my mind. Like wondering if he’d seen me and was so overcome with desire he’d rushed out for a wank in the bathroom, or maybe he’d gone to make sure the security cameras were recording so he could pleasure himself watching it later, replaying it over and over, screaming out my name. I know it’s not a terribly spiritual thought—blame Frankie for interfering with my energies. Ever since the lean, I just haven’t been the same.

  Perhaps he’d gone out to check on the shrine of yoghurt he has set up in the hostage quarters—maybe with some stills of me from the surveillance camera and strands of my hair that he scours the floor for after my exit stuck above the yoghurt, next to the cash I’ve used to pay for my items. I’m probably flattering myself, but I’d seen something like that on TV once, although there was no yoghurt involved.

  I know the thoughts are just Ms Middle-of-the-Road blowing a tyre or two. So I call the equivalent of spiritual roadside assistance and imagine what Amethyst would tell me about the way I’m letting mind carry on. I quickly take control of the wheel again.

  However, if I wasn’t reining myself in, I’d have to say that I hope the surveillance camera shots have caught my left side. It’s my best side.

  I take the opportunity to safely grab my yoghurt. Tina Arena’s ‘Chains’ comes on the radio, as though the Universe is trying to give me a warning, but before I can get away, Frankie returns to his implements of torture.

  ‘Hi, Frankie.’

  He gives a bit of a start at my super enthusiastic delivery. I may have overcompensated for my alert and alarmed state. He looks at me. It’s the look of someone who’s just been asked an incredibly loaded question and is contemplating their response or formulating a plan. I take a small step back. I’m not going to let my guard down and risk having him pull a chloroform-soaked hanky out of his jeans and end up gaffer-taped in the store room, corn husks around my eyes as a blindfold. The Stanley knife and screwdriver, I don’t even want to think about.

  ‘I don’t know your name,’ he says. ‘You told me but I forgot.’

  How dare he—how very fucking dare he! (This is no time to be apologising to Spirit!) And to just blurt it out like that! But for him to try to get away with a nameless ‘Hi’ in response to my overly zealous one would have been totally inappropriate and we both seem to know it.

  I force a smile to keep the devastation from showing on my face. Aftershocks of silent questions follow the major earthquake in my brain as I stand there and fully register that he’s forgotten my fucking name!

  If I were able to think, I’d be giving the screwdriver and Stanley knife some serious consideration as tools of torture myself right now, but I’m far too busy dealing with the disappointment that is crumbling the stumps of my foundations. Not even a deep hypno-breath and positive-thoughts mantra is going to get rid of this.

  How can I be fated to be with someone who can’t even be bothered to remember my name? Why do I feel like I disappear into a sea of karmic connection when I look into his eyes? What’s the magnetic pull about? And what of all the signs?

  I wasn’t planning on needing a list for my aftershock questions but there you go, you just don’t ever know what the Universe is going to throw at you.

  ‘Sorry.’ I take a step away.

  What am I doing? Why am I saying sorry?

  To come back from this situation I have to flip it on its head and find a positive.

  And there it is immediately—it gives me the opportunity to correct my original name exchange misnomer.

  I look back at him. ‘Officially it’s Fiona, but you can call me Kismet. I won’t be telling you again though.’ As bad as it is, I can’t stop flirtation flooding my voice. Then I turn with a flounce to walk away.

  ‘I won’t forget again,’ he says.

  I turn back and catch him making a little ‘locking it into my brain’ gesture at his temple.

  I’m mad at myself that I find it sweet, but I’m even madder at myself that I look into his eyes. I shouldn’t, he’s like Kaa in The Jungle Book, I’ll be hypnotised by his python ways and either floating off to Planet Swoon or in a storage locker by midnight.

  Either seems preferable to the current reality.

  20

  I chop, dice and stir-fry my way through the afternoon, flinging myself around the kitchen. My music is so loud it’s as though I’m trying to blast every thought and feeling about Frankie not only out of my head but out of my energy field.

  I usually try to envision myself as a multicultural domestic goddess—think Nigella Lawson with an Asian bent—when I do my weekly cook-up but today I’m not up to it. Who could blame me? However, I’m not going to let a little Frankie-forgetting-my-name depression interrupt my routine. As a Taurean, routine is my best medicine.

  Each time I stop long enough to think, I have to try to convince myself that Frankie only pretended to forget my name to show me that two can play the ‘I’m so cool, calm and collected, acting like I don’t care’ game. Although even Ms Obsessively-Overthinking-Eternally-Hopeful-Against-Hope can’t convince herself he’d be so complicated or into game playing, so Ms Middle-of-the-Road doesn’t stand a chance.

  By the time I’m heading out to meet Stephanie for dinner I’ve managed to bundle the whole incident into a tidy little package that I can live with. I had to try quite a few different boxes for size but the only one I can put it in is excusing him on the basis that he was so shocked at me actually speaking so many words in a row when I asked his name that he couldn’t take it in. And reflecting, I did sort of mumble, so he probably didn’t hear much more than that it started with an F. I pack the thoughts away and shove them into the mental equivalent of the space under the bed.

  All of my thoughts and feelings are knocked aside when I walk into the restaurant and see Stephanie. Unguarded, alone, it’s obvious she’s beside herself. Her face is St Bernard sad and slack and I can see the frown line between her brows from the door. She’s aged ten years since I last saw her.

  ‘Mum’s got cancer,’ Stephanie says, without any of her usual crisp efficiency.

  ‘Oh, Stephanie.’ I reach across the table to take her hands but she pulls them away. I know she’s trying to keep it together. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Even as I say it, it sounds feeble, words are always so inadequate at times like this. I want to say, ‘Cancer’s not a death sentence anymore, treatment has really progressed, heaps of people go into remission,’ but she looks so shattered, trying to turn it into something less significant than what she’s going through would come off as patronising.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Liver.’

  We look at each other, our eyes speaking the words our mouths won’t say. We saw what a woman we worked with years ago went through—it was evil. The success with treatment is low because by the time liver cancer is discovered, it’s generally quite advanced.

  Stephanie rallies herself. ‘It’s only stage two. She starts chemo next week.’

  From entrée to dessert, I let Stephanie talk, telling me things she probably can’t say to anyone else—I let her be sad, angry, outraged, frustrated, scared—although neither of us really have an appetite. But Goddess above, when it comes to dessert I’m only h
uman, and what sort of girl is going to leave any baked ricotta cheesecake on her plate (or Stephanie’s), particularly in an Italian restaurant in the aftermath of her own, now comparatively insignificant, life crisis?

  Before we leave I need the bathroom.

  ‘Ciao, bella,’ the cute young Italian delivery driver says to me, dismounting his Vespa, which I’ve just had to side step as he zipped into the back of the restaurant. We’re still laughing at my surprise as I disappear behind the bathroom door. Alone, my laughter is extinguished by the memory that Frankie forgot my freaking name.

  During my thirty-five minute wait for the bus, I’m harassed, harangued and perved at by way too many drunk guys. The curse of being single and travelling solo on a Saturday night. Seriously, must you? I think time and time again as I pull my wrap tighter and tighter around me until it’s practically a tourniquet. I decline every offer with a smile, including one not unpleasant and reasonably sober guy who tries to pick me up. I’m not feeling it, but then again I’m so cold I’m not feeling anything.

  Still, he and the Italian—hell, even the drunks—are a welcome gift from the Universe, obviously sent to remind me that I am not insignificant, let alone repellent to men, despite the behaviour of some I could mention.

  The string of the box I’d so neatly packed the name-forgetting incident in unravels on Sunday morning and Frankie jumps around in my mind like a hyperactive child on a trampoline. There is no way I can justify his oversight. Even Amethyst’s ‘what is fated must be lived’ and her denouncement of the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon have worn beyond wafer thin.

  I’ve got Bing’s daughter Lulu’s sixth birthday party this afternoon but I need to get out immediately. If I stay here stewing in my own thoughts it’ll only get worse. Armed with my laptop and a hard copy of my What I Want and Need in my Next Male Love Relationship list, I take myself on a spiritual date to work on it in the anonymity and peace of a café in the next suburb. I hypno-breathe to ease my despair (not easy when it really should be done with your eyes closed). My shortcut through the park offers the bonus of not having to pass PGGG.