Shauna's Great Expectations

by Kathleen Loughnan

  On my second night in Bourke, I check my social media accounts on Olivia’s phone. When two messages from Nathan O’Brien flash, my heart swells. Olivia, who’s watching my every e-move, says, ‘He’s obviously into you, Shauna. Why don’t you just tell him?’

  ‘I haven’t even read the messages yet!’

  I shield the screen from her prying eyes. The first message says:

  Coming back to Tamworth tomorrow after a month of shearing in Tassie with Luke. You around?

  His friend Luke was at the music festival in Manilla on New Year’s Eve. I vaguely remember him and thinking how gorgeous Nathan was by comparison.

  The second message was sent a day later – yesterday:

  Are you getting these messages? I haven’t been able to contact you for a month – no internet access in the shearers’ quarters. I wanted to tell you at Easter show I was going to Tassie, but you took off so quickly. (Sad face emoji.)

  Got to love a man who uses emojis. Fred the foetus is obviously moved, too, because he gives me a huge kick. The kicks have been getting stronger lately, Fred asserting his existence in case I forgot about him. I write back:

  Staying with a friend in Bourke. Back tomorrow. Message tomorrow night?

  A smiley face emoji comes shooting back immediately and my mood soars. I guess I really did want to hear from him. I log out and hand Olivia back her phone.

  ‘So?’ asks Olivia with raised eyebrows.

  ‘So we might hook up sometime during the holidays.’

  Olivia claps her hands together like an excited child. ‘I can’t wait to meet him.’

  ‘Who says you’ll ever get to meet him?’

  She shrugs, grinning.

  If I didn’t know it before, I know it now for sure: Olivia Pike is expecting to remain part of my life. She must be on the brink of coming back to Sydney. My trip to Bourke has been a success.

  The next day, when Mum picks me up from the station, she tells me there’s a surprise waiting for me at home. I don’t ask what it is. However, unable to contain her excitement, she spills the beans about the nursery before we’ve even reached the outskirts of Tamworth.

  ‘Dad bought a cot on Gumtree and it looks brand new! I’ve been sewing a quilt since the beginning of last term and now it’s finished, and yesterday I made a matching mobile. You should see it, Shauna! It’s so cute!’

  ‘Can’t wait, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, it was meant to be a surprise . . .’

  I’ve never met anyone less capable of concealing their emotions than my mum. I’m shocked that she was able to keep the quilt under wraps for all this time.

  ‘Where did you set up the nursery?’ I ask her.

  ‘At home, of course.’

  ‘But where?’

  Mum pauses and swallows. ‘Your brother’s room. You don’t mind, do you?’

  I’m so happy that Mum’s cleared out Jamie’s old room that I could cry. Since his death it’s been a creepy shrine, complete with his unwashed clothes folded on the end of his bed and his sneakers with the laces still knotted in his wardrobe.

  ‘I’ve put all his stuff away in boxes,’ Mum assures me. ‘You can take it out and have a look at it whenever you like.’

  ‘I don’t want to look at his stuff, Mum.’

  When we get home, there’s still some surprise factor because the room formerly known as Jamie’s room – now the nursery – is so beautifully decorated. The pièce de résistance, Mum’s quilt, is a marine-themed marvel. Each square of the quilt has a creature from the ocean sewn onto it. There’s a hammerhead shark, a sea turtle, a clown fish, a crab, a sailboat and more – all reproduced in the cardboard mobile dangling from the ceiling above the cot. It’s her signature style, with beautiful blues, greens and silvers, an Irukandji homage. It’s the ocean transported to dusty old Barraba.

  Without meaning to, I run my hands over my belly.

  ‘This is amazing,’ I tell Mum, who’s thrilled that I like it so much. It’s a vast improvement on the tribute to a bad past that was in here before. I loved my brother to pieces, but we’ve been living under the shroud of his memory for too long.

  Might my parents set themselves free now? Might we all set each other free?

  22

  ‘NATHAN!’

  He’s sitting alone in the food court in Tamworth Plaza, which at this hour of the day has the same atmosphere as feeding time at the zoo. He wanted to pick me up at home, but I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t want him to meet my mum without first knowing of Fred the foetus’s existence. So we agreed to meet with the rest of the Tamworth lunch crowd.

  ‘Nathan!’

  He looks up at me, then looks past me. I realise he hasn’t recognised me.

  ‘Hey.’ I’m standing next to his table now.

  ‘Shauna!’ He stands up and grabs my hand, squeezing it. He can’t help giving me ‘the elevator’. I suppose my shape has changed a lot since the last time we saw each other at the Easter Show.

  ‘So shearing, eh?’

  ‘It’s really well paid. I’m regretting it now, though. I’m fairly bent and broken.’

  ‘Your hands are soft,’ I tell him.

  ‘That is one advantage of being elbow deep in wool all day.’

  ‘Should we get something to eat?’ I suggest.

  We buy sausage rolls and Cokes from a nearby patisserie and settle back into the thronging crowd of the food court. Nathan watches me cautiously as I lay into my lunch with what must seem like frightening gusto. I don’t even feel the need to come up with an excuse. He’ll understand soon enough.

  I’m going to tell him, really I am. I don’t feel anywhere near as nervous about breaking the news as I did at the Easter Show. Damn his mother and her prejudices. She can do as she pleases with the information. Nathan and his family’s reaction won’t change what I do.

  In the last few days, I’ve seen two people I love – my mum and Olivia Pike – emerge well and cheerful from the most awful long-term traumas. If they have the strength to do that, then so do I.

  ‘You’ve probably noticed that I’ve put on some weight,’ I begin.

  Nathan shrugs awkwardly. What can he say? Nah, you haven’t. . .

  ‘Nathan, I’m pregnant.’

  Nathan stops chewing. His soft eyes widen.

  I’m not sure exactly why I add, ‘Sorry.’

  He swallows with difficulty and puts down his sausage roll. ‘Is it mine?’

  ‘How many men do you reckon I slept with on New Year’s Eve?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ I lift up my jumper and shirt to expose my outrageously stretched and swollen brown bump. ‘I guess the morning-after pill doesn’t always work.’

  ‘You took the morning-after pill?’

  ‘Yeah, and it made me puke my guts up for a whole day.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  He reaches for my belly and I slam my clothes back down over it.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you are sorry, Nathan.’

  ‘I . . . I thought it was all fine . . . and now . . .’ He grasps for words, breathing hard.

  I wish he wouldn’t sound so panicky. To be fair, I suppose I’ve had a long time to get used to the idea.

  ‘Well, you should have told me earlier, Shauna!’ he says finally. ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘A couple of months.’

  ‘A couple of months!’ He looks around us wildly without really looking at anything at all.

  This is not the reaction I was hoping for. What I was hoping for was a hug.

  ‘So you knew about this when I saw you at the Easter Show?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you, but your mum was such a bitch—’

  ‘A bitch?’ His mouth hangs open.

  He’s getting shrill and upset. I suppose I could have used a different word.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Shauna? She hardly said a word to you.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Exactly what?’
/>   The people eating at the tables on either side of us have started to steal glances. I don’t give a hoot.

  ‘I saw the way she looked at me.’

  Nathan blinks at me rapidly, a dozen little blinks in a row. Then he becomes suddenly articulate. ‘I told Mum about you before the show. Quite a lot, actually. I was really embarrassed when you left the pavilion and never came back. It was humiliating. Now you tell me you’re pregnant, and that you’ve known for months, and I’m humiliated all over again.’

  ‘You’re humiliated. Oh, poor you! I’m the one who’s gotta be in the world. Like this.’ I stand up awkwardly and the legs of my chair scrape against the hard floor. Our corner of the food court goes silent. No one’s pretending not to listen now.

  ‘Goodbye, Nathan,’ I say dramatically, turning on my heel.

  ‘Shauna, wait . . .’ he calls half-heartedly after me, but he doesn’t follow.

  I’d been planning to go shopping for fat clothes after lunch, but I’m just too upset. I go straight to the bus stop and hightail it back to Barraba, barely able to stop myself from bursting into tears.

  ‘How did it go?’ Mum asks as soon as I walk in the door. She and Dad have been nagging me about telling Nathan all holidays.

  ‘Just great!’ I call sarcastically as I stomp in the direction of my room. I slam the door and roll onto my bed. Mum knocks gently at the door.

  ‘If you’re coming in here to harass me, forget it!’

  She opens the door. ‘Shauna, I just wanted to know when you’d like to go and see Dr Skinner.’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it now, Mum!’

  ‘You have to see a doctor. You can’t just show up at the hospital when your waters break.’

  ‘I’ll see Dr Baker after the holidays.’

  ‘That’s what you said last holidays.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, get off my case!’

  Mum sighs heavily. ‘Don’t worry about the boy. He has to pay child support. He can’t get out of his responsibilities.’

  ‘Mum! Out!’

  ‘Wait until your father speaks to him!’

  ‘Mum, get the bloody hell out!’

  She sighs again and leaves me be.

  I heave onto my back and close my eyes. I can’t wait to return to school and get on with my life.

  When I do get back to school two weeks later, I find that my life isn’t quite so easy to get on with. Disaster strikes when I can’t squeeze into my winter uniform. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it being a problem before the first morning of school. I guess I’ve been in some denial about my appearance. Lou-Anne cuts the tunic down the back so that it can splay out and give me room up front. I put my blazer over the top to cover her handiwork.

  ‘We should break into the clothing pool,’ suggests Lou-Anne.

  ‘Why is crime always your first resort?’

  I end up borrowing twenty bucks from Jenny at lunchtime. She hands it over reluctantly enough to make me feel bad.

  ‘Did you end up seeing a doctor during the hols?’ she asks, forcing me into eye contact as I fumble around for an answer.

  ‘I just . . . err . . . well, I ran out of time. Between seeing Olivia and everything else . . .’

  Her clear eyes hold mine in a disapproving, almost parental gaze that I don’t much like. I’d give her back the twenty dollars, except that I need it desperately. Indignities like this just can’t be avoided when you have no money.

  ‘I was busy, Jenny.’

  She nods as if she understands, but I feel like she’s scrutinising me, judging me. Does she think she’s better than me? Since I pulled out of HSC University Pathways I don’t think she even likes me that much. Paris was the icing on the cake. That was not the way I thought our friendship would roll this year. I thought we’d be much closer. I thought we’d be studying together and sharing everything, but Fred has driven a wedge between us.

  I toddle to the clothing pool, manned by some mother from the Oakholme Ladies’ Auxiliary who somehow knows my name.

  ‘Don’t you want to try it on, Shauna?’ she asks as I hand over Jenny’s money for the biggest circus tent of a tunic I can find on the rack. ‘It looks like it might be a bit big for you.’

  She holds the bottle-green monstrosity out in front of me. It’s old. It’s tatty. It’s enormous. It looks like it’s been passed from generation to generation of obese (or maybe pregnant) Oakholme teenagers since Reverend McBride was in charge.

  ‘It’s perfect!’ I lie, bundling it into my arms like a parachute. I take it, along with my five dollars in change, up to the dorms and get changed. I look at myself in the full-length wardrobe mirror and cringe at the sight of the girl looking back at me. There’s no nice way of putting it. She’s fat. Everything’s fat except her wrists and ankles. Something tells me I won’t be going to the Year 12 formal. I also realise that the jig could be up before our exams if someone has the guts to confront me about my billowing figure.

  After lunch, I cross paths with Mademoiselle Larsen. She tries not to stare at my new threads. I plead with her telepathically not to say anything. Anyone can put on a little weight. . .

  ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’m running some extra dictée sessions in the language labs every Friday until stuvac,’ she says.

  ‘Cool!’ I respond with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

  ‘So, I’ll count you in.’ She pauses, seeming to take me in. ‘Jenny, too?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to talk to Jenny about that.’

  Then Mademoiselle asks the question I’ve never quite been able to stomach.

  ‘Is everything all right, Shauna?’

  ‘Between me and Jenny?’

  ‘Generally. Life.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You know that offer of the apartment in Paris still stands.’

  When she says that, I shrink. All my rich dreams and great expectations are withering before they had a chance to ripen. It kills me to be reminded of that reality. The reality of ambition foregone. Best case scenario, I study journalism online from my parents’ place in Barraba between breastfeeds. I feel both brittle and ashamed standing before Mademoiselle Larsen in my maternity tunic.

  ‘I just can’t go to Europe next year and that’s that,’ I croak.

  ‘Are you having some kind of personal problem?’ she asks gently. ‘This is probably the most stressful time of your life.’

  I shrug in agreement. She’s not wrong.

  ‘If there’s anything you want to talk about – anything at all – I’m here for you.’

  I nod awkwardly. The bell rings and I waddle off to my next class.

  Olivia and I have been keeping in touch since I visited her in Bourke. A couple of weeks into the third term, she hits me with the good news – she’s returning to Oakholme! I have a meeting with SRF, during which she congratulates me on convincing Olivia to come back.

  ‘This time, Shauna, you need to keep a closer eye on her, and I don’t just mean physically. You need to be aware of what’s going on with her emotionally, not just during the mentoring sessions but in general. We can’t afford another incident like the last one. It’s not good for Olivia or the school or the Indigenous scholarship program.’

  ‘Yes, Reverend Ferguson.’

  ‘The other thing is that Olivia will have to apologise to Keli Street-Hughes.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There are no buts, Shauna. It’s one of the conditions of her return to the school. So you talk to her about it, okay?’

  And I do. Olivia has a few choice words to say about Keli. In the end, though, she gives her the most grudging, insincere apology I’ve ever heard. A single ‘sorry’ is muttered in the aisle while we’re filing into chapel one Sunday, with God as Olivia’s witness.

  ‘There, I did it,’ she grunts to me. Keli just scoffs.

  Other than that, there’s very little fanfare around Olivia’s return to the fold, except that Lou-Anne, sensing the competition, begins to
make some jealous remarks when the third wheel is in our presence. Actually, she has no idea how close Olivia and I are now.

  The whole Wish Upon A Star debacle seems to be over. Needless to say, Olivia and Keli are also ‘over’, and, after the ‘apology’, they no longer speak. They studiously ignore each other, and for a while Keli ignores me, too.

  I begin to toy with the idea that perhaps my grand feud with Keli is over. Perhaps now that she’s won and been vindicated in every way, she will leave me to lead my dusty little black life unmolested.

  Oh, how wrong I am.

  It seems like Keli still has a gigantic chip on her shoulder about the incident in the shower, which must have been – let’s face it – pretty humiliating for her. The chances of an event like that being kept quiet in the Oakholme College boarders’ dormitory were zilch. All the boarders know about it now and the latest piece of gossip is that I am a lesbian. I was so overcome with desire for Keli that day that I peeped at her in the shower. Yeah, right.

  Poor old Lou-Anne gets dragged into it, too. Of course she’s my lesbian lover because she and I usually have showers together. Never mind that we shower in separate cubicles with the curtains drawn!

  Considering what Lou-Anne and I have been through in our lives, it’s not that hard to laugh off this ridiculous nonsense. I’ve got bigger problems than lesbian rumours, anyway. I’m nearly seven months pregnant and I’m well and truly showing. Fred the foetus is turning into Bob the baby. Even the bottle-green monstrosity begins to tighten up. Still, if anyone suspects anything, they’re not willing to accuse me. With my blazer on I just look fat, and according to the grapevine, jokes have been made at my expense on that topic. Luckily, I am far from being the fattest boarder, and it’s still cold enough to get around in leggings and big jumpers. It will only be a matter of time, though. Surely I can’t get through the entire pregnancy with no one twigging? Or maybe I can.