by Lucy Arthurs
ME
When are we going to tell them?
PATRICK
There’s no one to tell.
ME
What about your mum?
Patrick pauses.
PATRICK
She wouldn’t get it.
ME
What’s to get? We’re having a baby. I haven’t even met her.
PATRICK
She’s trouble, Pers.
ME
I don’t care. I’d like to meet her.
PATRICK
One day.
ME
We’re having a baby, Patrick. I need to meet your family.
PATRICK
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Chapter 25
A couple of days later. Evening. Patrick’s.
“Look for the learning.” Louisa May Alcott.
I race from rehearsal, duck home for a quick shower and then over to Patrick’s to meet his mum. Jack’s at Mum and Dad’s.
I fly through the door, give Patrick a perfunctory but enjoyable kiss and settle myself on the couch. Patrick makes me a cup of tea.
She’s late.
I’ve had my tea, followed by another cup and a plate of cheese and crackers. Patrick has gone into the kitchen to stack the plates in the dishwasher. I flick through a magazine.
Then I hear her. She clambers up the front stairs and then lurches into the room. She eyes me. Takes me in. Full body appraisal.
My heart is suddenly in my throat. Maybe Patrick was right. Maybe we didn’t need to meet.
Breathe, Persephone, breathe. Take it one step at a time.
HIS MOTHER
(calls to Patrick)
I’m here!
She didn’t even address me. She appraised me, dismissed me and hollered for Patrick.
I smile.
ME
Hi.
A curt response.
HIS MOTHER
Hello. Pat!
I take a deep breath. She hates me.
Patrick comes out of the kitchen, slightly red in the face. Flustered. He looks stressed.
PATRICK
I can hear you. The whole neighbourhood can hear you.
HIS MOTHER
Well, pardon me.
I’m wearing a pink mohair cardigan with crystal buttons that I bought from Myer last year. Bad choice, Persephone. Totally regretting it now. I did a straw poll with my sister and Mum and decided it was best to play it safe—feminine. Neat. Motherly, but modern. The mother’s an ex-Catholic, but as they say, “once a Catholic, always a Catholic.” I assume because he’s her only son, well only child, and I’m a soon-to-be divorcee with a child, that she will think I’m wayward and loose. I want to make a good first impression.
HIS MOTHER
You must be the girlfriend.
ME
Persephone.
HIS MOTHER
That’s right. Knew it was something Greek. You don’t look Greek.
ME
I’m not.
HIS MOTHER
Oh, well. Where’s your child this evening, Penelope?
I want to laugh, she’s being so nastily dismissive. But I don’t.
ME
Persephone.
HIS MOTHER
I can’t get used to that name. What sort of a name is it?
ME
Um . . . mine.
PATRICK
Mum!
Listen lady, it’s okay for me to hate my name, but you hating it is off limits.
ME
My parents liked it.
PATRICK
It’s a character, isn’t it?
ME
From Greek mythology.
HIS MOTHER
A lot to live up to.
PATRICK
Listen, we’ve got some news.
I smile and nod.
ME
Yes, that’s right.
Patrick squeezes my hand.
PATRICK
Persephone and I are having a baby.
She scoffs.
HIS MOTHER
What?! You’ve only just met.
ME
Yes, it’s early days, but/
PATRICK
/what’s meant to be is meant to be.
ME
We’re very excited about it.
HIS MOTHER
I need a drink.
She gets up and careens into the kitchen in search of alcohol. Then it hits me—she’s drunk. She’s just going into the kitchen to top herself up. That’s why she’s so rude and vile.
Patrick is desperately clutching at straws.
PATRICK
She means well.
I’m not convinced. I think she’s a control freak. A drunk control freak.
Don’t judge, Persephone. Affirm her positive qualities—she has a lovely son, she’s brave in her opinions and she doesn’t seem to care two hoots about what people think about her. She’s spirited. I like that. Even if she appears to hate me. She’. . . I’m clutching at straws.
She comes back from the kitchen with a glass of something. Vodka, maybe. She sits opposite me. She downs her drink and stares.
I need to bail out and go home.
HIS MOTHER
Well. You’ll have to come and visit me. I could babysit.
She laughs.
HIS MOTHER
The place I’m in at the moment has two spare rooms, so we can accommodate you and the little man at the same time.
ME
My son?
HIS MOTHER
No. My son.
It’s like I’m back at high school. Not that I ever stayed over at a boyfriend’s place during high school. Not that I ever had a boyfriend at high school. But I can imagine it is appropriate to sleep in separate rooms when you’re both horny teenagers, not when you’re both approaching middle age.
PATRICK
We’ll just pop down for lunch.
HIS MOTHER
Suit yourself.
She downs the rest of her drink and grabs her bag.
HIS MOTHER
I’ve gotta go.
She kisses Patrick on the cheek.
HIS MOTHER
You look thin.
PATRICK
So do you.
HIS MOTHER
Best of luck.
She walks out the front door.
ME
Nice to meet you.
I say it to her back. She’s gone.
ME
That was quick.
PATRICK
Want a drink?
ME
Cup of tea would be nice.
PATRICK
I’m thinking vodka.
Patrick goes straight to the kitchen. I follow him. He pours himself a vodka and puts the kettle on for me. What on earth do I say?
ME
She’s very protective of you.
He downs his vodka and pours another one. The cup of tea now seems redundant.
ME
I’m tired. I think I might head off.
PATRICK
The kettle hasn’t even boiled.
ME
I know . . .
PATRICK
You could stay.
ME
I don’t know.
PATRICK
We don’t have to sleep together.
ME
What, we can have separate room
s?
Low blow. But he laughs.
PATRICK
Once a Catholic.
ME
Yeah. Once a Catholic. Look . . . I’d love to stay, but . . . I want to get back to Jack. And I need to rest. The play opens in a week and I have to pace myself.
Patrick looks crestfallen.
PATRICK
I told you she was trouble. She just blows in and . . .
He trails off and takes another sip of his drink.
ME
Do you see her often?
PATRICK
Rarely. She travels around. Look, Pers, I hope she hasn’t put you off.
ME
Of course not.
PATRICK
Really?
ME
I’m having a relationship with you, Patrick, not your mother. Although it would have been nice if she’d liked me.
PATRICK
That’s just her.
Patrick looks gutted. Tired and sad. He gives me a wry smile.
PATRICK
Oh well, at least now you know what you’re getting into.
ME
I can handle her.
He kisses me. I collect my things and get into my car. As I turn the key in the ignition, I let out a huge sigh of relief. I can breathe. Finally. For the first time tonight, I can actually breathe.
Chapter 26
Two weeks later. Weekend. My house.
“Drama assumes an order. If only so that it might have—by disrupting that order—a way of surprising.” Vaclav Havel.
I am officially in love with this man, drunken mother or not.
Jack had his fifth birthday a week ago, the day after opening night. Patrick and I came home from a cracker of an opening show and stayed up late to make the birthday cake—a Big Bird cake. Bright yellow, fantastic beak, great big smile. I loved every minute of it and so did Patrick. I had a real sense of what our future might be like.
Then the next day the house was filled with squealing children. The party was great. Quality food, fun-packed, low-sugar lolly bags, and a chipper round of Pass the Parcel with a gift for every child. Yes, I know I should probably subscribe to the “only one gift at the heart of the wrapping” philosophy, but I can’t bring myself to. They’re all winners. They’re all as cute as buttons.
Except for the little boy who was wearing the hoodie. He seemed to have marks on his face. I put it out of my mind at the time and got on with the party, but now it’s coming back to haunt me.
Now, one week after the party and the second week of the play, I’m sick as a dog. I’ve got three weeks left to run on the play and I feel wiped out. I just need to soldier on until it closes. I can’t wait. It’s a delight to perform but I’ve never felt so ill. I don’t think it’s just morning sickness. This morning I have woken up with spots. I’m suspecting I’ve caught something from Mister Hoodie. Patrick suggests we head straight to the doctor. I’m reluctant.
ME
Really? It’s just a rash. Harmless. Probably a virus.
PATRICK
Nah. Each time I look at you more spots come out.
ME
Really?
I check my face in the bathroom mirror. He’s right.
ME
Okay.
Jack is having his night at Tom’s. I still can’t bring myself to let Patrick stay over while Jack’s in the house. Yes, I know I’m carrying Patrick’s child. Yes, I know I’m an adult. Yes, Jack can cope with the fact that mummy has a man in the house, but it feels weird. Half-bogan.
PATRICK
I’ll drive you.
ME
I’m fine. I can drive myself.
PATRICK
Are you sure? I’m worried about you.
ME
I’ll be fine. I’ll ring you. You’ve got work to do.
PATRICK
Well, I’ll be at my place so call me on the landline or the mobile.
ME
It’s just a rash.
PATRICK
Love you.
I make my way to the seven-day medical centre. I see a lovely Indian doctor whose name I can’t pronounce no matter how hard I try. She looks at me quizzically when I tell her I’m an actor and voice-over artist. Seems an odd career choice when I can’t even retain a complicated surname in my head.
DOCTOR
You have chicken pox.
ME
Me?
DOCTOR
Yes, you. And possibly your baby.
ME
Bed rest and lots of fluids?
DOCTOR
This is potentially very serious. If the disease has crossed the placenta, your baby faces possible respiratory compliations, maybe some form of calcification, even cardiovascular problems and/or limb deformity. It’s life-threatening. For you and the baby.
ME
What?
DOCTOR
Termination is recommended, although I can’t tell you what to do. The decision is yours. It’s early days, now would be the safest time.
ME
What?
I can’t think. I can’t hear. I can’t take it in. She’s talking about a harmless childhood disease. But then she’s talking about termination. Calcification. Deformity. What does she mean? It’s just chicken pox.
DOCTOR
As I said, this harmless childhood disease is life-threatening, even fatal for adults, but especially for pregnant women.
I’ve been so irresponsible about the seriousness of this rash. Did she just say life-threatening? Potentially fatal? Me? I’m pregnant. I’m full of life. I’m not life-threatened.
DOCTOR
If you decide against termination, you’ll probably need to have an amniocentesis, although you’ll need to think about that because there’s a chance it can trigger miscarriage. But it’s the only way we can know for sure if the foetus has contracted the virus. You’ll need extra scans so we can monitor the baby should you decide against termination.
We hired a magician for Jack’s birthday party and one of his tricks was having me pretend to be a chicken. Then he waved his magic wand and hey presto, I’d laid an egg. But it doesn’t mean I am a chicken! A poxed-chicken or a chicken-poxed. It doesn’t mean calcification, deformity, termination and . . .
DOCTOR
Right now, you need to be in hospital so we can monitor you. Your temperature is very high and we can’t take any risks.
ME
Hospital?
DOCTOR
You’ll be put on a drip in a quarantined ward. The only people who’ll be able to visit you will be people who’ve had chicken pox themselves. Anyone else should stay away. You said you had a son?
ME
He’s been inoculated.
DOCTOR
And you haven’t?
ME
I didn’t think of it. I thought it was something only kids got.
DOCTOR
This is a highly infectious disease. Very dangerous for a woman in your condition. I’ll contact the hospital and let them know you’re on your way. I suggest you call your husband.
ME
He wouldn’t be interested.
It’s out of my mouth before I have time to think.
DOCTOR
I’m sure he would.
ME
Sorry, I mean . . . he’s my ex-husband. My partner is . . .
DOCTOR
Well, call your partner then.
And straight away I’ve gone from tertiary-educated, respected, nice mother who works in theatre and writes plays, does voice-overs but endearingly can’t quit
e retain complex Indian names, to a bogan who is having a child with someone who is not her husband. A bogan who has a partner and an ex-husband. A bogan who already has a child from a previous marriage. A bogan whose ex-husband couldn’t care less. A bogan who has children with two different fathers. A bogan who . . .
She breezes out of the room and I reach for the phone. I dial Patrick’s number.
ME
Have you had chicken pox?
PATRICK
Yeah, few years back. Worst illness I’ve ever had. Felt like I was gonna die. That’s the rash?
ME
Yep.
PATRICK
Shit.
ME
The doctor’s putting me in hospital.
PATRICK
Which one?
ME
Local.
PATRICK
I’ll meet you there. Don’t panic.
He’s calm and decisive in a crisis. I contemplate my future as I wait for the doctor to come back into the room.
The play. Maybe I could just take a few days off. But they’re putting me in hospital. So? Maybe I’ll be out in time for Tuesday’s show. Who am I kidding? I have a highly infectious disease. I’ll have to drop out. I’ve never done that before. In all my years working as an actor, I’ve never dropped out of anything.
My phone rings. I absently and automatically answer it. My agent’s witchy tones screech down the line.
WITCHYPOO
I’ve got an audition for you. Tomorrow. Midday. An ad. Lots of money. Don’t stuff it up.
ME
I’ve got chicken pox.
WITCHYPOO
Wear make-up then.
ME
I can’t. I have to drop out.
WITCHYPOO
You can’t.
ME
I have to.
WITCHYPOO
Do you know how hard it is to get these auditions?
ME
Of the play. I have to drop out of the play.
WITCHYPOO
What?
ME
I’ve got chicken pox. And I’m pregnant. They’re putting me in hospital. The baby . . . I have to drop out. I’m sorry. Please organise it for me.