The Wrong Door

by Bunty Avieson

  ‘You were always having so much fun. We had to be so proper at home. I always felt like I was in trouble. I couldn’t use Dad’s stereo because I’d be sure to break it. If I borrowed his binoculars when I gave them back he said the lenses were dirty. It was like we always had to be on our best behaviour. I couldn’t wait to move out on my own. But your house was always so relaxed. You could eat in front of the ΤV. You had takeaway fish and chips for dinner. And no-one yelled at you if you dropped something on the floor.

  ‘I remember the first time I stayed over at your place and your mother brought us tea and toast in bed. Then Marla came and got in too and told us all about her date from the night before. Remember she had gone out with that TV actor and he took her to some star-studded opening night? And she let us try on her dress. I will never forget it. It was blue, off the shoulder with a slashed diagonal panel across the chest. I thought it was the most glamorous thing I had ever seen. I always dreamed of having one just like it.’

  Clare smiled. ‘I remember she dated the actor but I don’t remember the dress. It doesn’t sound like one Peg would have made.’

  ‘No, I think she kept it secret from your mother. I remember it cost her a fortune.’ Susan looked wistful. ‘How I wished I had a big sister like that. Oh, oh, oh,’ she sounded excited. ‘Remember the night we pranced around with our hems hitched up? You, me, your mum and Marla. Up the stairs, onto the beds, down into the kitchen.’

  Clare groaned at the memory. ‘Those damn Dalton legs. We were showing them off. Mum was always so proud of our Dalton legs.’

  ‘And we had the stereo turned right up, listening to Frank Sinatra. We would never have been able to do that at my place. It was so much fun. I used to love coming over to your place because I never knew what to expect. There was always something happening. It was so … so … bohemian.’

  Clare stared at her friend. ‘You know, Susan, that is the funniest thing I have heard in a long time. My “bohemian” household. Well I suppose it is. My mad mother and mad sister.’

  ‘And mad Indian neighbour,’ added Susan.

  Clare smiled sadly. ‘He was the only one in my life who wasn’t mad. God, I miss him. Especially now. You thought my family was mad before, let me tell you the latest.’

  *

  ‘My name is Marla and I’m an alcoholic.’

  She spoke so softly the people sitting up the back had to strain to hear. In any other public talk they probably would have called for her to speak more loudly. But not at this meeting. They wouldn’t want to risk breaking her concentration. The fact someone could stand up and tell their story was more important than them being heard and most people in the room knew it.

  Marla’s voice was lilting with a slight lisp and her manner was shy and uncertain. It was obviously her first time and everyone in the room who had stood where she was standing felt for her and willed her to get through the next five minutes. Marla looked at the floor a few feet in front of her. She couldn’t focus her thoughts. She hadn’t intended to speak tonight and she wasn’t sure how she came to be standing out the front like this. It wasn’t her first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, despite what she had told Clare, and she knew the protocol, having listened to others tell their stories. But she hadn’t believed she had anything in common with them. They were alcoholics who couldn’t say no to a drink. They needed to drink every day.

  She wasn’t like that. Oh sure, she lost control a bit every now and then, but she could go for days without wanting or needing one. And hearing their stories certainly hadn’t inspired her to stand up and join them. Marla was horrified at the details that came tumbling out. And from such respectable-looking people. Marital abuse. Prostitution. Heroin. Heroin? And that from a baby-faced girl with a smile full of mischief. She looked about seventeen and should have been running around a netball court, not standing at the front of a bunch of strangers on a Saturday night saying she was celebrating two years of sobriety.

  A handsome greying man in his sixties spoke of how he had worked as a lawyer in New York by day, while at night he would seek out the seediest bars in the wrong end of town to be anonymous and enjoy a session, drinking until he blacked out. He managed to live that way and maintain his job for four years. He had been sober now for twenty-two years. Another man revealed he had spent time in Long Bay jail. Now he was a garbo, proud that he had stayed off the grog and become fit enough to run behind the truck collecting bins. The only thing these people appeared to have in common was a problem with alcohol.

  On her previous visits Marla had sat through meetings, listening to the different speakers and finding nothing in their stories that was relevant to her. But each time, just as she was smugly assuring herself she didn’t belong here, someone would say something that would resonate and she would feel a ripple of fear. She could push that fear down most of the time. But then after a binge she would stand in the shower full of self-loathing, terrified and ashamed at what she had been powerless to stop.

  Something propelled her to the front of the meeting this night. As soon as Thomas, a shy man with glasses, finished telling his tale of losing his family and self-respect through an affection for rum, Marla was up and out of her seat, wanting to declare something. Make it public.

  ‘I’m an alcoholic,’ she repeated, still staring at an invisible spot on the carpet a few feet in front of her. That seemed to her to be the crux of it. What else was there to say?

  ‘Hello, Marla,’ the group responded as one, full of encouragement.

  Marla looked up at them, blinking. ‘I … I have a problem.’ She stumbled over her words. No-one moved in their seat or coughed. Every ounce of attention was directed to Marla. ‘I haven’t had a drink today. I hope I don’t have one ever again.’ That was true, she thought, but it sounded trite. It didn’t really express what she meant. She tried again.

  ‘I hope not but I really don’t know that I won’t. I’m not sure I have the strength to not have another drink ever again. Today, now, as I stand here, I don’t want a drink. I think of my behaviour over the past couple of days and I am so ashamed and cannot imagine that I would want to get myself into that state ever again. And yet I know that some time in the future, I don’t know when, a few weeks, a few months maybe, I’m going to want to get drunk. It isn’t the drink itself I want, it’s that feeling of being drunk.

  ‘They use the word intoxicated for being in love and when I get that alcoholic high that’s how I feel. I just love it. Today I hate myself and I am ashamed and embarrassed and filled with disgust. But I know that is just how I feel today. Soon I won’t care about any of that. I’ll just want to be intoxicated again. I don’t know how to fight that desire. I give up. I can’t do it on my own. So here I am.’

  She turned to a poster that had been taped to the wall. It was headed The Twelve Steps. Marla pointed to the first one and read it aloud: ‘I admit I am powerless over alcohol. My life has become unmanageable.’ She turned back to the audience, almost shyly. ‘I don’t know if you can help me. I’m not really sure that I believe anyone can. But I’m here tonight so I guess that’s a start.’ Then she stopped.

  The audience realised she had finished and clapped loudly, as if she had just given the best speech in the world. Marla was taken aback at the enthusiastic response and fled from the front.

  Isaiah moved back to the microphone. ‘Thank you, Marla. We are here to help you.’

  Two more people spoke. Unlike Thomas and Marla they were old AA members and their stories were less about their drinking days and more about how they maintained sobriety.

  ‘My name is Cherie and I haven’t had a drink for one year, four months, two days and probably about three-and-a-half hours,’ said a petite blonde with lots of makeup and a bouncy manner. She paused, waiting for the response.

  Everyone in the room cheered and stamped their feet. ‘Hi, Cherie.’

  ‘Well done, Cherie,’ called out Isaiah.

  Cherie continued. ‘I am here because of my sponsor. W
ithout her I wouldn’t have been able to fight the madness. When I can feel myself spending too much time in my head, and starting with all that negative stuff, I pick up the phone to her and say I’m going mad. She’s great. She’s been there herself. She doesn’t judge me, just listens then tells me I am mad. We all are. And that’s okay. I don’t know why that helps me so much but just knowing I can call her any time of the day or night has been great. Marla and Thomas, I recommend you get a sponsor. Mine is my angel.’

  The audience clapped Cherie with the same gusto as they had Marla.

  Graeme was next. He was a gruff-speaking, tough-looking man in his thirties with a lovebite on his neck. He also had some advice for the new members. ‘The hardest part is over, recognising you have a problem, admitting you are powerless over alcohol. We aren’t like most of the population who can have a drink now and then. We have a screw loose,’ he declared. ‘When I feel that urge for a drink come, that craving, I stop and let it just wash over me. I don’t fight it or suppress it. I just feel it. I know from experience that it is just a craving and it will pass, whether I have a drink or not.

  ‘I got sober by taking myself off into the bush and camping. It was a two-day drive to the nearest pub so I gave myself no choice. And what I discovered was that those cravings have a certain life span. They pass, even without being satisfied. They come back of course, but then they go again. I relax and let them come then go. It works for me. I wish you both luck.’

  As Graeme finished Isaiah stood up again, reading from The Big Book, written by AA founder Bill W. Everyone listened attentively. And then it was over. Within seconds the members were out of their seats and helping themselves to coffee, leaving Gwennie alone up the back, feeling conspicuous and unsure what she should do. Isaiah was making his way towards her, his face beaming with a welcoming smile. It was all the impetus Gwennie needed. She stepped out of the other end of her row and made her way towards the hot water urn.

  Marla was surrounded by half-a-dozen men. Thomas stood awkwardly to one side, part of the group but not quite. The men were full of advice for Marla, which she listened to politely. Gwennie studied her. Obviously she was accustomed to being the centre of male attention and quite comfortable with it.

  She must have been very beautiful as a younger woman. Up close the years were starting to show. And the drinking. She was wearing a lot of makeup, more than any other woman in the room, but still her skin had the flushed rosy look of a drinker. And fine lines around her eyes and mouth suggested she was a smoker. Her figure was superb, long legs ensconced in tight, faded jeans. She was the most casually dressed woman in the room and yet the most elegant.

  To Gwennie’s eye she looked like the woman at the funeral. Perhaps Gwennie had got the name wrong. But then she lived at the same address. They must be related. The other woman in the car must have been Clare. Or maybe Clare was this woman’s middle name. Or maybe she had used a false name because she was at AA. Maybe all of them gave false names.

  The men flirted with Marla, not-so-subtly competing with each other to engage her in conversation. It didn’t matter that a couple of them were almost young enough to be her son. She was that kind of woman. Men would always buzz around her.

  ‘One of the best things about AA I have found is the mentoring process. When you feel that urge to have a drink, you just ring your AA sponsor and talk it through with them. Really, it works,’ said a man with spiky blond hair.

  Another man agreed. ‘Yes, that’s the best thing. It worked for me. When you feel it come on, ring one of us.’

  You are so transparent, thought Gwennie. You are all just angling for her telephone number. No-one noticed Gwennie, standing quietly, sipping tea from her polystyrene cup.

  Gwennie wondered which would be Marla’s type. Big beefy Graeme, shy self-effacing Thomas, Mr Spiky Blond or one of the others. AA certainly attracted a cross-section of people. Anyone, it appeared, could be an alcoholic. Maybe she should try it, thought Gwennie. Drown her sorrows. Drink away her grief. The hopelessness of it held a certain appeal, but it would take too long. If Gwennie was going to kill herself she wanted something quicker. She realised with a start that she hadn’t contemplated that for a few days – not since she discovered the existence of Ms Clare Dalton. It seemed that discovery had given her a new outlet for her grief and all the pent-up energy it produced.

  Marla disengaged herself. She was courteous but she wasn’t interested and made her way to the door. As she moved away the group lost their focus and naturally dissolved. Gwennie found herself standing next to Thomas. He smiled shyly. Gwennie frowned and turned her back. When a suitable amount of time had elapsed so that it wouldn’t look like she was following Marla, Gwennie left too. She looked for Marla in the street but all she got was a glimpse of auburn hair and a colourful scarf whizzing past in a taxi.

  *

  Clare felt unsettled as she drove home from Susan’s. She had a lot to think about. So many of the things she took for granted in her life were changing. It made the world seem a precarious place, unstable and suddenly unpredictable.

  That Mr Sanjay had gone was still unbearable. For so long he had been a reassuring presence, dispensing calm and wisdom whenever she needed it. He also provided an intellectual framework she could use to work things out. Without him she was uncertain how to respond to the whirlwind that seemed to be sweeping through her life.

  The news about the Lee family upset her deeply. Throughout her teenage years they had been a constant fixture and helped give her a sense of stability. Now it seemed they were a bunch of fakes and she was angry to have been so deceived. She hadn’t been able to express how she felt to Susan. It didn’t seem like her right so, instead, while she soothed and sympathised with her friend, her sense of betrayal sat in the pit of her stomach. Susan was the daughter, the one who had a right to feel betrayed, and somehow Clare had been relegated to being just a bit player, an afterthought.

  She was annoyed by Susan’s outrage, though she didn’t know why. Clare’s annoyance was irrational and, much as she turned it over in her mind, she couldn’t understand her feelings or where they sprang from. It made her feel guilty and churlish. She was also angry with Susan’s parents. How dare Mr Lee run off. And how dare Mrs Lee be happy about it. In fact how dare they not be the perfect family she wanted them to be.

  And she was confused about Marla. So she was an alcoholic. How was it that Clare could have lived at 44 Dadue Street all these years, in the next bedroom, and not know? How could Marla and Peg deliberately hide such a thing from her? Was the whole world lying to her, presenting a false façade? Was anything real?

  The gloom weighed on her as she drove down Dadue Street. As she drew close to her home she noticed a black Saab parked outside Mr Sanjay’s neat Californian bungalow and she could see the outline of a person in the driver’s seat. They must be waiting for someone, probably at number 41. They were always having parties. Not Mr Sanjay, she thought. His curtains were drawn and the house was dark. An auction sign was nailed to the neat white picket fence. Deceased Estate, it said, in large black letters. The auction was set for a Saturday in four weeks. Clare couldn’t bear the thought of someone buying the home and moving in. It would no doubt be a young couple who would immediately demolish Mr Sanjay’s old shed and put down terracotta paving. Clare drove past the Saab glancing at the silhouette of the driver. It looked like a woman, sitting very still. Clare looked back at the auction sign. She hoped the new owners of 42, whoever they would be, liked hollyhocks. Then she turned the little yellow Honda into her driveway, wishing the world would just slow down and stop changing so fast. She felt giddy, like she needed to catch her breath.

  After a few minutes the driver in the black Saab started its engine and the car purred away, turning right onto busy Parramatta Road heading east towards the city and then the leafy north shore.

  CHAPTER 7

  Peg was sitting in her usual spot, at the dining table, with 15,000 jigsaw pieces spread out befo
re her and an empty bottle of red wine on the floor by her foot when Clare walked through the door just before 11 pm. Her mother’s favourite talkback radio show, Songs To Fall In Love By, played in the background. Usually lovers would ring in and request their special tune. The messages were mostly soppy, wishing to tell ‘Popsie’ or ‘Muffie-head’ how much they meant to the caller. The radio announcer had a deep, sexy voice and often elicited interesting stories. Sometimes the lovers were making up after a fight, or a caller had just met someone and he had them telling all of Sydney what they fancied about their new would-be love. Straight, gay, young and old, lovers of all varieties listened and called up. Peg enjoyed it because of the old songs that were often requested. As Clare walked in she was humming along with Vera Lynn to ‘As Time Goes By’.

  ‘A man called John rang in to request it for his sister Pat,’ Peg told her. ‘Isn’t that nice? Apparently Pat’s lover used to sing it to her during the war and her brother used to tease her about it. He said he still liked to tease her so asked for them to play it especially for her.’

  From where Peg sat she could see to the front door, into the lounge room, across to the bottom of the stairs and down into the kitchen. It was from here that she ruled her world. No-one got past without Peg knowing about it.

  ‘Is Marla home?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Yes, she’s gone to bed,’ said Peg. ‘Relax. You shouldn’t worry about her so much you know.’

  ‘Oh, unlike you,’ replied Clare.

  ‘I’m her mother. That’s my job.’

  Clare sat down at the table and picked up a piece of the puzzle. It was a Swiss mountain scene in summer. There was a chalet in the foreground with lots of flowers spilling out of its window boxes. It had been a Christmas present from Clare and Marla.

  Peg had been working on it in her spare time for the past week. She usually had a jigsaw puzzle on the go, except at Christmas when they needed the long table for lunch. That was mostly a raucous affair starting with sherry and presents over breakfast on the floor by the Christmas tree. Susan would come for lunch as would Peg’s best friend Viv and her husband Gerald. They were all merry before they even sat down at the table.