Differently
Normal
by Tammy Robinson
Copyright © 2017 by Tammy Robinson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is set in New Zealand and as such all spelling is in New Zealand English.
Acknowledgments
My thanks and gratitude goes, as always, to my wonderful husband Karl, without whom this book wouldn’t have been possible. Thank you for taking on the weekend childcare duties of our three wonderful rugrats so I could lock myself away in my writing room and get Albert and Maddy’s story down on paper. Thank you also for my amazing cover design, you nailed it perfectly and I absolutely adore it. But thank you also for always believing in me. One day we’ll make it.
Thank you to the wonderful TBConFB (THE Book club on Facebook.) You guys are the best, you really are. Thank you for spreading the word about my books, and for being excited when I have a new one out. So many wonderfully supportive people I have met through here and through writing; Tara Lyons, Jo Edwards, Jackie Roche, Maddy Cordell, Gail Shaw, Jules Mortimer, Kate Jones, Fiona Hunt, Rebecca Raisin, Jo Walsh, Mark Paxson, Philipa McKenna, Donna Young, Donna Moran, Simon Leonard, Kaisha Holloway, Michelle Vernal, Helen Boyce, and of course the founder Tracy Fenton herself.
Thank you to Jo Edwards and Tiana’s mum, Emma Yarnell (shout out to charity UNIQUE for your amazing work) for your perfectly perfect suggestion when I was struggling to come up with a title for this book.
And last but by no means least, huge, TREMENDOUS thanks to Lorraine Tipene, without whom this book also wouldn’t have been possible, but for very different reasons (although if you didn’t live three gazillion miles away on the other side of the world I know you would look after the kids too.)
Lorraine contacted me around three years ago through Facebook after reading my first book, Charlie and Pearl. She wanted to tell me how much she loved it (and is still my biggest cheerleader for the book today.) An online friendship developed and now we message daily, and I couldn’t imagine my life without her. (But don’t tell her that, she’ll get a big head.)
Lorraine has a daughter, Rachel, to whom this book is dedicated. The character Bee in this book is basically Rachel. When I came up with the book idea I remember asking Lorraine and Kevin, with some trepidation, whether they would mind if I based the main character’s sister on Rachel. Always ready to increase Autism Awareness, they happily agreed. I would put Bee in a situation and ask Lorraine how Rachel would react, what she would say, and Lorraine would tell me. Without this personal knowledge Bee’s character could have come across as inauthentic. But with Lorraine’s input, Bee is a divinely wonderful character that you just can’t help but fall in love with.
So thank you, Lorraine, from the bottom of my heart.
Those who know Rachel consider themselves blessed, and I hope this book helps raise awareness about her and all the other wonderfully special people just like her.
This book is dedicated to Rachel Tipene, the beautiful inspiration behind the character Bee.
Although I have yet to meet you in person, you brighten my days through the wonderful stories and anecdotes your mother proudly regales to me.
Maddy
Photo of the week, we mutually agree, is the one that shows a life size blow up doll, one of those plastic ones that the manufacturers have tried really hard to make look like a real woman, propped up at a dining table. In front of her sits an untouched glass of red wine and a plate with what looks, upon closer inspection, like a typical Sunday roast chicken dinner. There is even a little blue gravy jug, like the kind my nana used to keep in a cabinet.
Whoever cooked that is an amateur, Kyle said. The potatoes have no crisp and the chicken looks as dry as the skin on the end of Rory, our bosses, nose. We both shudder at the thought. We live in permanent fear of that skin, it has a tendency to flake off onto work surfaces and cups of coffee.
The dolls garish red mouth is wide open, like she is permanently surprised. When Kyle tells me why it’s like that I make fake vomiting noises. I can’t believe some people are actually that desperate, I say. It’s not just some people, Kyle says, it’s a booming industry, the sex toy one. He quickly backtracks when he sees my eyebrows shoot up.
“Not that I’d know from personal experience,” he adds defensively. “I read an article somewhere.”
“Sure.”
“It’s true,” he protests.
“Do you think he’s named her?” I ask, turning my attention back to the photo.
“How do you know it’s a he?” he grins. “Could be a lesbian doll.”
We both ponder this.
“Do you think they make lesbian dolls different to heterosexual ones then?” I ask.
He shrugs. “No idea. But I can look it up if you like.”
“Better not. Rory’s checking the internet search history now remember? He doesn’t trust us to make efficient use of our work time,” I remind him, while we both studiously ignore a lady standing at the counter.
“Excuse me,” she calls. “Do you think one of you could actually bother to provide me with some service?”
Kyle and I exchange a look.
“Rock, paper, scissors?”
“Rock paper scissors.”
“One, two, three, dammit.”
“Every time,” I say smugly.
“One of these days I’m going to surprise you by not doing rock,” he grumbles as he walks off to serve the lady.
He won’t though. Kyle is nothing if not predictable.
While he’s gone I study the photo for clues as to the photographer, but there’s nothing. Thanks to new age technology and smart phone apps, the photo order was sent in via the internet, so we have yet to lay eyes on them. Whoever it is will have to pick the photos up in person though, that’s one thing technology hasn’t figured out.
Kyle comes back to my side.
“I bet he’ll be wearing a long black trench coat,” I say “With lots of pockets to hide all his deviant sex toys.”
“And dark sunglasses,” Kyle agrees. “To hide his perversion from the world.”
We snigger.
That’s one of the things I like about working the weekend shift with Kyle, our minds are on a similar wavelength. That and the fact he doesn’t ask me about my home life, for which I’m grateful. Sometimes I just need to talk crap and forget about things for a while.
“And he’ll have a fake moustache,” I add, warming up to our theory.
‘Fake? Nah. He’ll have a real porn star one that twirls up at the ends. In fact, I bet he waxes it with special stuff he orders in from Europe. Or maybe just KY jelly if he’s cheap.”
“Gross. That’s really a thing?”
“What?”
“Moustache waxing.”
“Again, I have no real experience on the subject, but I read something somewhere.”
Kyle is always reading. He has a voracious appetite for knowledge, most of it useless.
As it turns out we couldn’t be more wrong. ‘Mr Smith’ – fake name, we both agree – arrives at four forty nine pm Sunday afternoon to pick up his photos. The cynic in me thinks he has timed his arrival just before closing time to avoid the crowds. But he is neither furtive nor shady, which kind of blows that theory. If I had to compare him to someone for identification purposes, he puts me in mind of a certain big fat man in a red suit, the one who drives a sleigh and says ‘ho h
o ho’ a lot.
Mr Smith does have a moustache, or maybe it’s just considered an extension of his monstrous beard, like a loft conversion. Snowy white and immaculately groomed, I can’t help but stare at the opening where his lips are, although there’s no sign of them. He asks for his order in a jolly voice. I look suspiciously behind him for any signs of sleighs or reindeers or giant sacks of toys.
The coast is clear.
“Sorry, what was the name again?”
“Smith. I sent the order in via the internet a few days ago. The little box at the end said it would be ready in 48 hours.” He fishes into a back pocket and pulls out his wallet. From this he produces a printed receipt. “Does this help?”
“Probably.” I tap away at the computer keys. It can’t be right. The guy looks like someone’s grandfather. Maybe there are two orders for Smith.
Nope.
“Just a second, I’ll check with the technician if it’s ready,” I say.
The technician, aka Kyle, looks startled when I appear out the back wide eyed.
“What? What happened? Did I miss something? Did Todd get fired again? Who did he hit on this time?”
“He’s here.”
“Who?”
“Mr Smith.”
“Ahh. And? Were we right? Is the moustache waxed?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself.”
“Intriguing,” he says, grabbing the order from the counter and following me out. He stops short when he catches sight of our customer.
“Holy shit,” he says in a stage whisper.
“I know.”
“The guy looks like fucken Santa Claus.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“Yeah.”
“Holy shit. Just goes to show doesn’t it.”
“What?”
“You really can’t judge a book by its cover.”
I cringe. “Cliché.”
“Yes, but in this case, appropriate.”
I shrug. I dislike clichés as a general rule.
Mr Smith sees us standing there, staring at him. If he is at all embarrassed that we know his most innermost secret, he doesn’t show it.
“Find it?” he asks.
Kyle stands there, shaking his head. “It’s always the quiet ones,” he says. “The ones you least suspect.” More clichés. I take the photo wallet from his hand and complete the transaction. We watch Mr Smith leave.
“Is it just me, or has the world become a little bit more jaded,” Kyle says sadly.
“You expect too much from people.”
“I know.”
“It’s not healthy.”
“I know.” He shakes himself from his melancholy. “I need a shower.”
“Luckily for you,” I check my watch. “It’s knock off time.”
“Are you coming for a drink?”
I imagine the luxury of sitting in a pub nursing a cold beer, no responsibilities. “Better not. My mother has book club tonight.”
“You mean the one where they sit around drinking wine and discuss the meaning of life?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then, my dear, I shall catch you on the next drift,” he says. Kyle is on a mission to create new slang. So far it’s spectacularly failed to catch on.
Albert
The old bastard is on to me.
I know this because when I hear the front door slam and saunter out to the kitchen, confidently expecting the place to be empty he is standing there, arms folded and face expressionless.
“What time do you call this?” he asks.
“Hammer time?”
My wit, as so often happens with my father, goes unappreciated.
“Are you planning on spending the entire summer moping around, eating my food and watching TV I pay for?”
“And using your Wi-Fi. Don’t forget using all your Wi-Fi.”
His lips roll in on each other, expressing his displeasure. I watch him limber up to deliver a sermon.
“Your friends might think you’re funny Albert -”
He’s wrong there.
“ – but in this house I expect you to show the appropriate amount of respect.”
Ah, it’s that speech. The respect speech. I lean back against the kitchen counter and cross my arms across my chest, settled in for the ride.
“I work bloody hard,” he continues.
I know this one off by heart. To put a roof over your head and food on the table
“To put a roof over your head and food on the table. When I was your age –”
I didn’t ask my parents to support me. Why, I was working in the quarry at the mere age of fourteen and I’d get as filthy as anything.
“I didn’t sit around the house, expecting my parents to support me. I was only fourteen when I got my first job. Ball busting physical work it was too, in the quarry. I’d come home covered in grime but proud, and -”
I earned my father’s respect by paying my own way. You could do well to learn from that.
“ - my father respected me because I paid my own way. I certainly wasn’t a burden.”
Wait, what? That’s new.
“I’m a burden?”
“I owned my own car by the age of – what?” He blinks, disturbed from the script.
“You think I’m a burden?”
“Of course not. Wrong choice of word. You know what I mean.” He looks shifty though, like he knew full well what he was saying. He checks his watch. “Right, I’m off. Shift starts at oh-eight-hundred-hours. Tell your mother I’ve gone but I’ll be home in time for dinner.
He leaves, banging the front door shut behind him. My mother emerges from the laundry carrying an empty washing basket.
“Oh he’s gone already has he?” she says, pretending she’s disappointed. I don’t why she’s bothering because her audience is me, and I couldn’t care less if she’s avoiding him or not. Plus, the laundry sits off one side of the kitchen, there’s no way she couldn’t hear us from in there.
I must look rattled because she puts the basket down on the counter and sighs.
“You know he didn’t mean it like that love,” she says.
“Yes he did.”
“He didn’t. He’s just old school, your father. You know that. It’s a generational thing.”
“No, it’s an asshole thing.”
“Hey, don’t call your father an asshole.”
“Sorry.”
“He loves you, really he does.”
“He’s got a funny way of showing it.”
‘You don’t need to tell me,” she mutters. “Are you volunteering at the stables today?”
Shit, I check my watch. Lucky she reminded me. “Yeah, I better get going.” I grab a piece of bread from the cupboard and slap some marmite on it. As I leave I call back through the door. “Dad says he’ll be home for tea.”
“Great, I’ll lay out the best china and shave my legs.”
I’m fairly sure she’s being sarcastic.
Fetching my bike from the shed, I jam the piece of bread in my mouth and take off down the street. I love my bike, now. But as far as learning to ride a bike goes I was a late starter. I don’t know what it was but there was something about the whole look of the thing that scared the hell out of me, much to my father’s disgust. His method of teaching involved plonking a helmet on my head and taping my feet to the pedals with black insulation tape. Then he’d push me off and stand there yelling “pedal your feet, pedal your feet, PEDAL YOUR GODDAMN FEET YOU IDIOT!” I would just sit there, terrified, eventually wobbling to a stop and falling sideways to the ground. He would sigh and remove the tape, dusting off my knees and spitting on the grazes to clean away the blood.
“Let’s not tell your mother about this eh?” he’d say on the way home.
It was the fear of being left out that got me on a bike in the end. All my friends would boast of the freedom to go wherever they wanted, usually the local swimming pool to ogle girls, an
d I didn’t want to miss out. Now, even if I did have the funds to buy a car I’d still prefer my bike as transport.
At this time of the morning there is hardly any traffic about so I make good time. The sky is grey but it doesn’t feel like it’s going to rain. More like it will burn off and we’ll be left with a nice sunny day.
At the stables only Deborah is about. I wave hello. She ignores me as usual because I am clearly below her social circle. It doesn’t bother me because if she did talk to me I’d probably freeze up like an idiot. I park my bike behind the barn and say hello to Freckles, my favourite pony. She nuzzles my hand affectionately.
“Wish me luck girl,” I say. She whinnies and stomps one foot, then turns her attention back to her food.
Taking a deep breath, I knock on Francine’s office door.
“Come in,” she calls. Some of the staff call her Fat Francine because she’s almost as wide as her desk. She’s been pretty good to me though so I don’t. Todd and Matt the stable boys give me shit over beers, saying she has a crush on me, but I doubt that.
When I enter she is looking pretty chuffed with herself. The bouquet of cheerfully coloured flowers with a yellow bobbing balloon gives me a clue.
“Birthday?”
She nods coyly.
I have no idea how old she is but if I had to hazard a guess I’d say somewhere between forty and sixty.
“Happy 40th!” I say, erring on the cautious side.
Her face falls. “I’m 38.”
Aw shit. Which is exactly why I don’t guess stuff like that.
“I was joking,” I grin manically. “Haha. I thought you were only, like, thirty or so. Haha. Haha.”
Neither of us believes me.
“Did you want something?” She has turned her attention to her phone and I think maybe I should come back later. But no, I’m here. I grab my confidence by the metaphoric balls.
“I was wondering if there are any jobs going?”
She frowns.
“Paid ones?” I elaborate.
She sighs. “I don’t know, funding is pretty tight.”
This would normally be the point where I’d apologise for breathing and back out of the room. But I need this. I am determined to show the old man I am no burden. Not on him or society.
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