Tiddas

by Anita Heiss

  Richard looked surprised but had so much on his plate with his own domestic dramas that he said nothing. He didn’t need to because Trish, even at seventy-five, was capable of reacting enthusiastically for both of them, jumping out of her recliner and hugging her daughter tightly. Richard gently put his hand on her shoulder during the embrace.

  ‘Being a mother will turn out to be your greatest reward, Izzy, better than all the pay cheques, all the fancy clothes and cars, all those holidays and stuff you seem to like. When you hold that baby, I’m telling you, you will see why you were put on earth, Isobel, mark my words if I am not one hundred per cent right about that.’

  9

  MABO DAY

  Back in Brisbane the next day, Izzy was completely focused on the long list of interviews she had to do. Thanks to her hectic schedule she had no time to think about what she had to do later that night: tell Asher he was going to be a father. It was a conversation she had over-analysed, scripted and re-scripted on a loop in her head, but still she knew she’d struggle when the time came to release the words and say, ‘I’m pregnant.’

  She was grateful they’d agreed to meet tonight, Mabo Day, 3 June, as it was shaping up to be one of the busiest days she’d experienced since starting her job. Izzy knew she’d have no time to walk in emotional circles, ride the Lazy Eye and, unfortunately for her sense of peace, she’d have no time to sit in the Nepalese Pagoda and meditate either. Her entire day had been dictated to her, and her thoughts would only begin to be hers again when events in the cultural precinct had officially concluded.

  A gigantic Torres Strait Islander flag hung on the outside of the Queensland Performing Arts Centre and could be seen by the traffic that cruised over the William Jolly Bridge. The whole area around the State Library, GOMA, the Queensland Art Gallery and the Museum was crawling with people from early morning, and the outdoor areas had been transformed into a place that was filled with vibrant colour. The faint smells of curry lingered as food stalls and others selling arts and crafts were setting up. In the background the entrancing sounds of Islander music and drums wafted through the air, piped from speakers on every building. On the lawns between the library and the gallery, a Sea of Hands installation had been erected by Australians for Native Title and Reconciliation volunteers, and technicians were setting up microphones for the performances that would run throughout the day.

  It was 9 a.m. and Brisbane was preparing to commemorate the life of Eddie Koiki Mabo. With so many Torres Strait Islanders living in Queensland, it was a public holiday in the State, but the date was yet to be made a national day of celebration. After the telemovie Mabo hit Australian screens in 2012, there’d been an increase in awareness of the man from Murray Island who fought for the native title rights to his land by overturning the legal fiction of terra nullius. More and more Australians were seeing him as a hero to be honoured, revered and, most importantly, remembered.

  For Izzy’s part, today reminded her of what she loved about her job. Would she be able to do so much culturally significant work if employed by a mainstream network? Would she miss the community connection that fed her soul? Maybe staying where she was wasn’t such a bad idea. She didn’t have time to dissect her career goals today though, or contemplate what Tracey would have to say at the sudden change of heart, so she opened her black leather portfolio and ran through her schedule for the day.

  A highlight for her would be recording the Mabo Lecture being delivered by a local leader in the library’s main auditorium. She’d long admired his work in Indigenous education and had seen the benefits of his Stronger Smarter Institute for the community generally, but for young Murris specifically. She’d interviewed him before, most recently on the release of his memoir, but today, the focus of his address and any questions she might have would be solely on the work of the late activist.

  Throughout the day she’d pop in and out of kuril dhagun to get vox pops from those viewing the exhibition of Torres Strait Islander visual artists and basket makers. A day-long workshop was planned where school children could make their own baskets as well as dharis and grass skirts. Dance and song lessons were also on the program, and a kup-murri was being prepared in the yarning circle. A big feast was sure to attract a huge crowd; a good feed always did. Mabo Day was the perfect opportunity for non-Indigenous locals to get among some of the best cultural practices Torres Strait Islanders had to offer on the mainland.

  When the Jaran Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Dance Company performed in Suncorp Plaza it made the perfect backdrop to Izzy’s interview with musical favourite Uncle Seaman Dan. As Izzy signed off her show, ready for an edit before airing on the arts channel later that night, she was glad her working day had ended, but she knew the real challenge for the day lay only an hour ahead of her.

  As she boarded the City Cat from South Bank 2 heading to West End, Izzy was exhausted. She was hungry. She wanted a glass of wine, just one, but reminded herself that she couldn’t, and started scripting in her head again. The next time she spoke to anyone it would be Asher and she’d be delivering the most significant unprepared lines she’d ever spoken. But this time there’d be no cameras.

  Izzy sat at the bar picking at the herbed polenta which she previously would have devoured mouthful by large mouthful. She looked at the Hong Kong Phooey cocktail she’d ordered as a decoy but hadn’t touched it, knowing it could instantly become Hong Kong Spewy. She knew Asher would think something was wrong straightaway if she didn’t eat or drink something, so she took a small sip from the long straw and hoped the baby wouldn’t end up pickled.

  ‘I’ve made you a new dish, Iz, an extra special vegie stack. I think you’ll like it.’

  Asher gently placed the colourful vegetarian dish in front of her, proud of his culinary attempts. He trusted her judgement because she had always been honest with him. That is until now. They hadn’t seen each other for almost two months, the longest period they’d gone without sex with the other, but Asher had been insanely busy doing a series of auditions for Masterchef: the Professionals, and even when he tried to make time Izzy would avoid the meeting, always ready with a list of pseudo-reasons as to why they couldn’t meet up. Phone calls and late night text messages had been used just to check in, stay connected and debrief about their work, but without saying anything, they both knew something was wrong.

  Izzy eyed the dish, not feeling any desire to even pick up her fork, but on seeing Asher’s smile she felt a surge of pride in his efforts, and took a mouthful. His eyes widened waiting for a response.

  ‘You’ve outdone yourself, Flasher, the bar is the highest it’s ever been.’

  ‘I love cooking for you,’ he whispered, somehow puffing his already large chest out even further.

  Izzy was so proud of him. His career would change dramatically because of the baby. Or would it? Would he be like most men and expect her to stay home and be a mother while he maintained the path to his career dream, and she changed nappies and breastfed? Would she end up like Veronica? Izzy shook her head and frowned at the thought.

  ‘What’s wrong, Iz?’ Asher asked, assuming she’d lied and actually didn’t like the meal he’d placed in front of her.

  His face resembled that of a wounded child, and Izzy felt an emotion for him she’d never experienced before. She wanted to hug him, not in lust, but in another way.

  Asher put his hand on Izzy’s in a show of intimacy they’d never really had before, not in public.

  ‘What is it?’ Asher asked again, knowing that his usually bubbly lover was not her normal self. Izzy just wanted to collapse like the vegie stack had when she first dug into it. She hadn’t been lying to him all these weeks, but nor had she been completely honest. How would he feel about that on top of news of the pregnancy itself? Izzy could do a perfect poker face when interviewing people she didn’t like or didn’t agree with, but she couldn’t hide what was in her heart with her friends and family – or with Asher.

  ‘I’m just exhausted,’
she said, only half-lying.

  She was tired, mentally, physically and emotionally, and she knew the exhaustion was compounded by the extreme guilt she was feeling. The day would’ve left her lethargic anyway, but with the emotional journey she’d been on the past few months, she just wanted to lie down and sleep and cry. Izzy had already started wearing looser clothing, but hadn’t shopped specifically for maternity wear. She was experiencing some pain when standing up and imagined her body starting to stretch. A call home to her mother earlier in the week told her it was completely normal, albeit uncomfortable.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, removing the plate from in front of her. ‘I’m finished, I’ll take you home.’

  Asher was a good man. An honest, caring, kind man. He would make a great dad. He would make a great partner too. Why had they never thought about being a proper couple, doing things in the daylight together, going to the park, walking along the river, eating somewhere other than his work? Why didn’t they go to the movies, have weekends away, drive up or down the coast? Why had they only found companionship in the bedroom and in their career dreams? Why had Izzy never seen what a thoughtful, considerate man Asher was before now? Was she forcing herself to see him this way because now she really needed him, whereas before she just wanted him?

  That night they made love. It was gentle, slow. Izzy hadn’t been able to tell Asher before they fell asleep. She clung to him all night, afraid it might be the last night they’d be together. She didn’t want to lose him as a friend, as a lover, at all. Anxiety woke her at 3 a.m. and she could feel herself wanting to cry, but willed herself not to. She didn’t want to wake him. She didn’t want to have the conversation in bed. Their whole existence outside of his restaurant had been between her sheets. Her baby, their baby deserved more than a late night teary conversation that would most likely end up badly, with Asher walking out on her, on them. Izzy wanted a more dignified ending if that’s what was going to happen. She lay dead still, staring at the ceiling with one hand on her belly, the other in Asher’s hand. They’d fallen asleep holding hands like kids do when walking in pairs on a school excursion. Izzy started counting sheep, black ones, and then told herself go to sleep, go to sleep, go the fuck to sleep. Eventually she was lulled into slumber that lasted until a rooster crowed at dawn and she woke instantly.

  Asher was already up and in the shower when she opened her eyes. She knew she couldn’t let another day go by and when he came into the bedroom naked she looked at his toned, tanned body and felt a pang of missing him already. Even though they only had a night-time friendship, Izzy realised that Asher had really been her boyfriend for six months, even if they never acknowledged to each other or anyone else they’d been in a relationship. Asher pulled on his jeans and t-shirt and walked over to kiss her goodbye. She sat upright in bed. She couldn’t let him leave, couldn’t go another day without telling him.

  ‘Do you want to go out for something to eat?’ she asked without hesitation.

  Asher didn’t look shocked, although he should’ve. They’d never been out for breakfast before, they didn’t ‘do breakfast’. They did dinner, during or after his shift while she sat at the bar. But Asher was easygoing, he liked food, he liked Izzy, so he simply said, ‘Sure.’

  Not long after, they were in the shaded courtyard at the back of the Gunshop Café. Izzy had missed it since giving up her morning coffee. When Asher went to the bathroom she eyed off the potted herbs on an arty metal frame lining the wall. She wondered if anyone would notice one missing. She could take it to its death with the other plants on her balcony.

  Sitting on the wooden chair she was fidgety. It felt like a date; they’d never been on a date. She wondered if Asher thought something was up. Did men ever think beyond their bellies and their dicks? Then she started to panic. Why did I bring him here to tell him? What if he freaks out? I’ll never be able to come back here.

  She felt cold all of a sudden. She wanted to feel the sun on her arms and her face, but the Queensland rays were brutal, she’d been told many times. The locals didn’t want to sit in the sun. They wanted the shade to protect them. Even women walking at 6 a.m. wore hats. They were whitefellas though. Izzy always thought her pigment would save her; after all, she’d never heard of a Blackfella with melanoma. Her thoughts were scattered all over the place, and she was grateful when Asher finally arrived back at the table.

  ‘I love it here. Why haven’t we done this before?’ Asher said, looking at the menu. ‘We never go out for breakfast. Great idea, Iz, great idea.’

  Izzy was confused. They never went out for breakfast because he never suggested it.

  ‘I have something to tell you,’ Izzy said, desperate to get it over and done with before she lost her courage. ‘I probably should’ve told you earlier, but . . .’ she stopped herself. Was she going to say she’d once considered an abortion and wouldn’t have told him if that had been the case?

  He doesn’t need to know that, Izzy mentally ordered herself. He might hate you even more if you tell him that. Stick to what needs to be said, and only that!

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she blurted out, just like she did with her brother in Mudgee. She looked around the courtyard to see if anyone else heard her, but what did it matter? She was having their baby, and Asher was more than likely going to get up and walk out immediately anyway.

  Before Asher even had time to respond Izzy kept going, trying to piece together the script she’d had in her head since Mudgee.

  ‘I’m not telling you this because I want anything from you. I can manage this by myself, and my family will help. My tiddas will be great support, and I am going to sort something out at work. Actually I’ll probably stay at the library now, rather than chasing the other job I had in mind, you know, because it will be easier to negotiate my leave if I stay where I am.’ She was ranting, she could hear herself coming undone, almost sounding a bit crazy, unsure of her plans, and totally inarticulate compared to her onscreen persona. And yet she couldn’t stop herself.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you to come to the antenatal classes anyway, even though they are recommended for first time parents.’ Fuck! she thought to herself, why am I saying all of this? But she couldn’t stop herself. ‘I need to go of course because I haven’t got the faintest clue about being pregnant, or babies generally. I can’t remember the last time I changed a nappy even.’ And she couldn’t. ‘It doesn’t matter, because I’m sure Ellen will come, and Xanthe knows everything there is to know about pregnancy, and well . . .’

  She stopped herself, knowing that Asher wouldn’t really want to know about their strained friendship caused by her having considered a termination. But he was still sitting there, looking at her, faintly smiling yet looking concerned, or was it confused? She didn’t want there to be dead air like on radio or TV which was just awkward and so started again. ‘But really, I’m good, it’s all good. So, you don’t need to worry about anything.’

  ‘Izzy,’ Asher put his hand on hers again, making that two public displays of affection in twenty-four hours. ‘Stop raving, it’s okay.’

  She couldn’t believe how calm he was, that he hadn’t left the table yet.

  ‘It’s not okay. I’m pregnant, didn’t you hear what I just said?’ Izzy asked, feeling tears build up.

  Asher sat there, still holding her hand, saying nothing, looking bemused. Izzy wondered if it was a look of entrapment. Did he feel trapped? He just looked at her hands, saying nothing, and ran his fingers along her palms. Izzy was confused about his reaction and feared the worst.

  ‘Say something,’ she said, because she knew if he didn’t she’d start raving again. She started up again anyway. ‘You don’t want the baby, do you? I knew you wouldn’t. I don’t blame you . . .’

  ‘Stop it, Izzy, please,’ Asher said with a touch of force. ‘Stop it. You need to give a man a minute to think, okay? I’m not as quick as you are.’

  Izzy felt chastised, silly, embarrassed. Tears filled her eyes.

  ‘I ho
nestly don’t know what you must think of me, obviously not very much if you think that I would let you do this alone.’ He took a breath. ‘That I wouldn’t be excited about my own child.’ Asher waved an approaching waitress away and moved the salt and pepper shakers from the middle of the table so he could take both Izzy’s hands in his.

  ‘I’m a bit shocked because, well, you know, we’re always careful, but it doesn’t mean I’m not happy.’

  ‘Really?’ Izzy was in shock too.

  ‘Of course. I care about you. I care about us. You’re the woman in my life, Izzy, the only woman. This actually makes sense. We’re both just too busy worrying about our careers to see that this is how normal people live their lives – with kids as well.’

  He looked deep into Izzy’s eyes, which were now full of tears. She had never cried in front of him before. She’d never had reason to; theirs was a calm, safe space always. He had never looked at her so intensely before either. Izzy was crying and rummaging for a tissue in her bag. Asher handed her a serviette.

  ‘We can do this together, this is our baby. It will be beautiful and clever like you, and calm and funny like me,’ he joked.

  Izzy had never noticed before that Asher was, in fact, quite funny. Sitting opposite her was a man who she had been intimate with but never really close to.

  Asher got up and walked around the table. He leant down and kissed Izzy on the mouth. She was in shock, not expecting such a loving reaction. He sat back down and pushed his chair in. ‘You are a very clever woman. We are clever. We made a Murri baby.’

  ‘Koori baby,’ she said.

  ‘Go the Maroons,’ Asher joked.

  ‘Go the Blues.’

  ‘Don’t be giving our kid an identity crisis before it’s even born,’ he added.

  ‘I’m going to get fat,’ Izzy said. ‘I already am,’ she patted her belly.

  ‘I didn’t want to say anything because I think you’re the sexiest I’ve ever seen you, but I did notice your breasts were huge last night.’ Asher cupped his hands like a typical bloke on the grope. He was calm and considerate, but he was also human.