by Helen Brown
Rob and I had been through so much together. The day I’d had to phone him to say Cleo had died, he’d sighed and said, ‘There goes the last link with Sam.’ Our grief would always be an invisible bond between us. Even these days, when we had a moment alone, we’d thumb through old photos and talk fondly about Sam.
Rob always says bad times help you appreciate the good. Casting my mind back over the uncertainty and pain of recent months made these joyous days leading up to the wedding so precious.
In quieter, sombre moments I’d Google the latest events in Sri Lanka. The month before Rob’s wedding a suicide bombing in the town of Anuradhapura claimed the lives of twenty-seven people, including a former general. While Lydia insisted the monastery was a million miles from these atrocities, my maternal heart still fretted.
With the wedding only two weeks away, we were just about ready for visitors. Ahead of them all was one very important arrival. When I phoned the airport an automated voice said the flight would be arriving ten minutes early. That couldn’t be right. Planes are never early.
Philip and I bustled into the car and hurtled down the motorway.
‘She’ll have lost weight,’ I said. ‘Two vegetarian curries a day must be incredibly purging. I’m not going to say a word.’
Philip smiled tactfully, but remained silent. He dropped me outside the Arrivals Hall and went to park the car. There was no sign of her among the passengers spilling in from Singapore. Maybe she’d missed her connection. The trip from the monastery to Colombo airport would’ve taken more than four hours. There could’ve been all sorts of hold-ups – elephants, pot-holes, terrorists. Alternatively, the flight from Sri Lanka to Singapore could have been delayed.
There’s nothing like an airport Arrivals Hall to reinstate faith in human nature. A young Indian man clutched a cellophane-encased rose. A Chinese family stared intensely at the automatic doors. The atmosphere crackled with expectancy. The doors snapped open to reveal a tired-looking man in a suit. A woman ran forward trailing a child. They embraced in a pyramid of joy. All those stories about smiling being good for people’s health must be true. He looked suddenly younger and relieved of his jet lag.
Calls from Lydia over recent weeks had been sporadic – either she was in silent retreat or the monastery’s electricity supply was disabled. Once she’d written a letter but the post office had run out of stamps.
The doors opened again. My chest lurched. But I could tell from the luggage trolley it wasn’t her. Expensive suitcases and duty-free booze weren’t her style.
‘No sign of her yet?’ Philip asked, slightly breathless after jogging from the car park building.
The doors weren’t being co-operative. They spat out a beautiful young Indian woman who was swept away by her rose-toting lover, followed by an ancient Chinese woman to be mobbed by her family. Maybe customs officials were giving Lydia a hard time. I’d watched Border Patrol enough times to know how they operate, always on the lookout for weirdos. Maybe they’d mistaken a lingering aroma of incense on her clothes for something else.
Even if Lydia hadn’t become a nun, she’d certainly been living as one, sleeping in a cell and meditating more than twelve hours a day. I steeled myself for the possibility she’d decided to surprise us with a shaved head and maroon robes.
Years of waiting at airport barriers have taught me one thing. The only way to get people to walk through those doors is to go to the cafe and buy a polystyrene cup, preferably two, full of unbearably hot tea. Staggering back through the crowd, with splashes of tea scolding my hands, I heard a shout of delight from Philip. She’d arrived.
Thinner, yes. Almost worryingly so. Yet there was beautiful warmth in her eyes. Her clothes were reasonably normal, thank goodness. White pants and an ethnic-looking jacket. I was relieved to see her hair was still all there. The expensive colour job I’d booked her before she’d left had given her several inches of regrowth. The overall effect was unkempt or possibly rock star, depending on your perspective.
Thrusting the teas in a rubbish bin, I ran toward her and wrapped her in my arms.
‘You look . . .’ I said, way too skinny but I’ll fatten you up in no time.
‘. . . wonderful!’
Allure
A house is happy when a daughter knows she is beautiful
Instead of getting more independent with age the way Cleo had, Jonah became more needy. He missed the painters terribly, waiting by the door for them in the mornings. When they didn’t show up, he followed me around the house meowing and meowing, reminding me of the children when they were unsettled as babies. When they couldn’t stop crying, I’d carry them around in a shoulder sling. It always worked. The warmth and closeness calmed them down.
Using the same technique with our unhappy cat, I put him in a cloth supermarket bag, slid the handles up one arm to my shoulder. Cocooned in the bag, he stopped meowing and started purring. The rhythm of my footsteps soothed him. With his head peering over the top of the bag, he saw everything that was going on and was comforted.
Jonah would’ve stayed that way for hours, but he was getting heavy these days. My arms still tired easily. Even when I lowered him gently back on the floor, he’d stay curled inside the bag hoping someone might take over nursing duties. Jonah needed attendants – lots of them. It was just as well Shirley was filling up with people again.
He romped tail aloft down the hall to greet Lydia, but refrained from throwing himself at her. Most people who left the house for more than twenty-four hours were treated as traitors and snubbed for at least two days. After three months’ absence, Lydia clearly deserved serious punishment. He sniffed her sandals. The aroma intrigued him. He ran his nose over her fisherman’s pants, her backpack and, when she lifted him up off the floor, her hair. He seemed to be reading her perfumes the way a person would absorb the contents of a book. I wondered if the scents whispered tales of snakes and temples, incense and elephants. Even my dull human senses had detected wafts of spice, smoke and dust combined with something vaguely floral.
Once Jonah had sniffed and dabbed his nose into the folds of Lydia’s bags and clothes to his satisfaction, all was forgiven. He buried his head in her neck and purred like a tuk-tuk. He then bestowed a rare and generous gift – a lick on the back of her hand. After that, he refused to let her out of his sight. Wherever she went, Jonah was a whisker behind. When she sat, he buried into her lap as though trying to anchor her down. If she meditated, he sat, eyes closed like an ancient statue, between the candle and the photo of her guru on the ‘altar’ in her bedroom.
Wonderful as it was to hear Lydia’s footsteps padding lightly up the stairs again, she seemed to be floating around on her own separate cloud, physically with us, but mentally in some other world. While she beamed benevolence, she seemed disconnected. I couldn’t help feeling she was regarding her meat-eating, fun-loving, non-Buddhist family as a let-down.
Once again, I resented the monk who’d used his charisma to lure her away from us.
It’s not uncommon for a mother to lose touch with who her daughter really is. It happens from time to time either by accident or on purpose. I’d distanced myself from Mum, selfishly and sometimes callously, in favour of my independence, sanity, identity. Those were my excuses. Most strong young women toy with the notion of rejecting their roots. Especially if the voice of their mother resounds inside their heads, passing judgment on everything they do. A daughter needs to find out if her strength is real or borrowed.
I’d managed to get my head around Lydia turning her back on us and our values for a while. But the prospect of her losing touch with herself was more concerning. This floaty, spiritual being didn’t feel like the real Lydia. But if she was determined to turn herself into somebody else, I had no power to argue with her.
Besides, I felt responsible to a certain extent. If her father and I hadn’t divorced maybe things would be different. As a little girl she’d been so anxious not to hurt anyone she’d counted the days she spent in
each household meticulously to ensure she gave each family equal time. Nothing like a broken home to turn children into diplomats.
But then not everything about her upbringing had been terrible. Both families, parents and step-parents, brother Rob and half-sisters adored her with all their hearts.
If she found us offensive or inferior after her time in the jungle, I wished she’d talk about it. Instead, she just smiled enigmatically with that out-of-focus look in her eyes, answering my questions with, ‘It’s hard to explain.’
Now she’d become a semi-saintly being, I didn’t know how to reach her. I wanted to reintroduce her to the delights of being a beautiful young woman in the society she belonged to.
Katharine suggested that an all-girl shopping expedition to find outfits for Rob’s wedding might do the trick. Lydia was reluctant to accompany us at first, but we dragged her along.
Katharine fell in love with a purple dress in a boutique window. With a billowing skirt and ruffled neck, we agreed it was a perfect fit. The shop assistant wrapped it in tissue and slid it in a bag. Katharine beamed with the triumph of the successful shopper-gatherer as we left the store.
Lydia appeared dazzled by the colours and styles on offer. She was drawn to demure outfits in muted shades. Whenever Katharine and I persuaded her to try on dresses with low necklines that made the most of her perfect figure, she shook her head, embarrassed. If the style exposed her arms, she reached for her shawl to cover them.
Finding an outfit I felt comfortable in also presented challenges. With my tummy tuck and new boobs, my body was a different shape from the last time I’d been shopping for evening wear. I felt like a teenager, not knowing what clothes might suit my altered body.
While the reconstruction had been harrowing, I was pleased I’d gone through with it. Because of Greg’s handiwork, I could go for days without being reminded I’d faced a deadly disease. From a personal perspective, it’d been good to have reconstruction simultaneously with the mastectomy. I’m too much of a coward to have volunteered to go back to hospital for another round of major surgery.
Fully dressed, I actually had a better shape than before breast cancer. In my bra and knickers I gave a pretty good imitation of normality. Finding a good bra had been problematic, though. In the weeks and months after surgery, I’d had to wear soft bras with minimal shape. Now I was willing to be more adventurous I was disappointed how limited the options were. Underwire bras seemed foolhardy considering their reputation, deserved or otherwise, for upping the risk of breast cancer. Yet finding an attractive bra with no underwire was almost impossible. Every lingerie department was packed with underwire bras. I’d have to seek out the most mature-looking assistant available and explain my circumstances while she apologetically produced a few dowdy options. Underwear manufacturers hadn’t seemed to realise women still want to feel sexy after cancer.
Once my underwear was removed, there was the giant abdominal scar and the missing nipple to contend with. Whenever I expressed doubt about the wisdom of putting myself through hours of extra surgery, Philip would put his arms around me and reassure me. How he always managed to say the right thing is beyond me.
Accepting reassurance wasn’t one of my strong points, however. I couldn’t quite believe him when he said I looked great. I’d seen his diplomatic skills in action with other people too many times.
Feeling vulnerable, my radar was on high alert to catch him admiring other women with unscarred bodies. Either he’s a saint, or too quick for me. I never caught him out.
While my breasts may have looked the part, they were hardly a source of erotic sensation any more. It took a while to adjust to having no feeling at all in my fake breast, and very little in the left uplifted one. I’d learnt to check my upper chest was covered before going out in freezing weather. Because of the numbness in that region it was easy to expose myself to the elements inadvertently and catch cold – or worse, flash some innocent passerby.
The girls encouraged me to slide into a full-length silvery dress. With a low neckline and no sleeves, it wasn’t my usual style. Cleavage! A victory statement against disease. With a black shoulder wrap and a few metres of Hollywood tape, I felt safely tucked in . . . and, surprisingly, almost glamorous.
After days trawling the shops with Lydia, we ended up back in the same boutique Katharine’s dress had come from.
‘There is that one . . .’ said Lydia, tentatively indicating a rack near the front of the shop.
‘You mean this?’ I said, lifting an ivory linen suit into the light. It was safe to the point of being invisible.
‘No, this one,’ Lydia said, pointing at a riot of silk and lace. ‘Do you think it’s too colourful?’
‘Not at all!’ Katharine and I chorused in unison. ‘Try it on!’
Waiting outside the changing room, Katharine and I bubbled with anticipation. We heard feet shuffling and the swish of fabric. Lydia was taking forever. Katharine bent to look under the door, but said all she could see was bare feet. We called through the door asking if the size was okay. She wasn’t sure.
The changing room door opened to reveal something amazing. Not Lydia the saint and caregiver, nor Lydia the charity-shop university student. This was a new Lydia, an alluring young woman swathed in swirls of vibrant colour. The full skirt swung sensually from her hips as she stepped forward. The tight-fitting bodice emphasised her waist. Narrow shoulder straps and black lace across the, well, it was more a chest-line than a neckline, gave the dress form and femininity.
‘You look stunning!’ I breathed.
Lydia’s smile filled the shop with sunshine.
‘I’d need a shawl,’ she said. ‘But this dress is too expensive.’
Glimpsing the price tag, I gulped. Nevertheless, a gown that enhanced her beauty and brought her back to the core of her own culture was beyond price. We bought the dress and took it home where, much to Jonah’s delight, the girls spent the afternoon rifling through my jewellery drawer.
I’d offered to buy them earrings and necklaces, but they insisted on choosing pieces from our family’s past. Katharine opted for a cameo necklace that had belonged to Great Aunt Myrtle, who like many of the women in our family had (by the standards of her generation) been oversexed and over-adventurous.
Lydia opted for flamboyant drop earrings I used to wear in the 1980s, along with Mum’s diamanté necklace. Mum had loved that necklace, especially during the 1960s when it sparkled against her skin on special occasions.
Their rebel daughter ancestors would’ve felt honoured to have their trinkets aired on such a special family occasion in the twenty-first century.
Jonah was thrilled when he unearthed a single peacock feather earring from the depths of the jewellery drawer. He was even more pleased when Katharine attached it to a ribbon he could wear around his neck.
Decked out in his customised designer necklace, Jonah preened himself on the kitchen table where he knew he wasn’t supposed to sit. Raising his front foot, he pretended to be engrossed in the task of giving himself a manicure. Licking the gaps between his claws, he cast sideways glances watching and waiting for his favourite words: ‘Jonah you are beautiful!’
I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to feed his vanity, but at the core of every vain person there’s usually a soft-centred blob of insecurity. Perhaps if we flattered him he’d grow into a confident cat who didn’t have to bother impressing others.
Smart as he looked, Jonah wouldn’t be attending the wedding. I phoned the cattery but they were fully booked. Fortunately, I still had Vivienne’s number. She remembered Jonah and when asked if she’d visit him at home during the wedding weekend quickly said yes.
There was one other small problem. Ferdie had nowhere to go, either. Vivienne said she’d be more than willing to look after both cats at our place. A cat bachelor pad. It sounded a breeze.
Dysfunction
A taste of liberty is better than none
‘He eats rubber bands? And merino wool?�
� said Vivienne.
Jonah arched his back sensually as she ran her hand over his spine. She was the first female visitor he’d really approved of. Watching how she handled him, allowing him to make the advances and give affection on his own terms, I liked her even more than the first time we’d met. Her hair was dyed purple and scraped back in a ponytail – not a look that would suit many women over thirty-five, but purple was her colour, and a perfect match for her brown eyes. There was softness in those eyes, especially when discussing animals – a sparkle of humour, too.
‘He likes alpaca wool as well, but more for sleeping on than eating,’ I replied. ‘Though come to think of it, he did chew holes in my alpaca cardigan.’
‘That’s pica,’ said Vivienne.
‘Like what pregnant women get when they want to eat lumps of coal and stuff?’
Vivienne nodded.
Uncertain I could trust her diagnosis, I asked if she had a cat. Her eyes lit up. She had nine.
‘Nine?! ’ I echoed, barely able to conceal the fact that my opinion of Vivienne had just changed from ‘unusual’ to ‘mad cat lady’. I’d seen a television programme about women who couldn’t stop collecting cats. It’s a psychological disorder.
She asked if I’d like to see photos. While I had no desire to inspect pictures of poor mangy things clambering all over her house, I didn’t want to cause offence. Vivienne reached into her surprisingly organised purple handbag to retrieve a pocket-sized photo album.
‘These are your cats?’ I asked, turning page after page of glossy coated, well-fed felines. Every one of them was a supreme example of a loved and pampered animal. ‘How do you do it?’
‘Not always easily,’ Vivienne laughed. ‘They’re all rescue animals. Zoe was left on the side of the road when she was a kitten. Igor lost one eye and his owners didn’t want him anymore. Sally was abused. They’ve all had a rough time.’