by Ilsa Evans
With this I can’t think of another damned thing to say. I am pleased for her but also absolutely stunned and just a little concerned. Diane is forty-two years old and her youngest child will be thirteen in a month! When you add to these facts the reality that she suffered progressively worse pre-eclampsia with each of her pregnancies and has been waiting hand and foot on those males of hers for many years and they are totally incapable of change or even the realisation of how much work she really does – a recipe for disaster could be looming.
And I don’t need to worry about any more looming disasters at the moment, thanks very much. Another baby in the family! There goes our in-sync periods. I suppose now I’ll have to keep track of my own. And I am beginning to get the uneasy feeling that I am on a roller-coaster ride that is going just a little too fast for my liking. But there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.
‘Well, of course I never advertised the fact, but I have been so jealous of you with your two girls. And ever since the boys have gotten bigger – well, I haven’t felt so needed. Or something. I’m just so excited. Oh god, I’ll have to go, Michael’s just walked in with some friends and I haven’t told the boys anything yet. I’ll ring you tomorrow. You can practise being just a little more ecstatic, and we’ll talk some more. Just be happy for me, please?’
‘You can’t leave me till tomorrow! Ring me tonight!’
‘I can’t, we’ve got Evan’s indoor soccer final tonight. I’ll ring you tomorrow, I promise.’
‘Diane, don’t go yet, at least tell me how many months you are. When’s it due?’
‘Oh, I have to go back again in a few days because apparently I didn’t drink enough or she was in a bad position or something, but guess what? It looks like you’re going to get a birthday present you didn’t expect! The only date they’ve given me at the moment is your birthday – February the thirteenth!’
That makes two birthday presents I didn’t expect and I believe that my puzzle piece has now not only been devoured, but also massacred, stomped on and then regurgitated for good measure.
MONDAY
6.20 pm
‘Mummy, I told you last time that I hate horrid cooked mushrooms.’
I look across at this rather small piece of pyjama-clad humanity who stares equably back, her round little face framed by a freshly washed blonde bob. I decide to try subtle sarcasm.
‘Hell’s bells, CJ, I can’t think how I could have forgotten that crucial fact or how I could have failed to take it into account when I spent two hours preparing this delicious and nutritious meal that – IF YOU FEED ONE MORE MUSHROOM TO THE CAT YOU CAN GO STRAIGHT TO BED!’
‘I didn’t feed them to Golliwog … I tried but she won’t eat them coz they’re berry bloody disgusting.’
Fortunately I have used the time spent cooking this meal (page 69 in the Slimmers Guide to a New You) to good advantage and have recovered my usual even temperament and naturally semi-optimistic nature by thinking through the day’s events calmly and rationally … and having the odd few glasses of wine. I am now, or at least I was, the epitome of the perfect mother, setting a good example by picking at the revolting mushrooms without complaint and not allowing myself to be upset by the fact that the table was set for four and yet only two are in place. The cat has wisely given up trying to beg food from CJ and has begun a methodical paw-washing operation instead. I watch CJ push food around on her plate while she pouts at me, and will myself to take several deep breaths before answering her challenge.
‘Go to bed right NOW !’
So I sit alone at a table set for four, pushing my own food around my plate while I look at the cat, which has started to have some rather odd convulsions beneath CJ’s chair.
I decide not to eat the mushrooms.
I also decide to tear out page 69 of the Slimmers Guide to a New You.
Actually, I think I must be experiencing some kind of otherworld catatonic trance because I cannot move nor take my eyes off the idiot cat. Either that or I’m drunk. And it has just occurred to me that if the cat dies as well as the bird, I might as well call it quits and eat Ben’s goldfish for supper. Although that damn galah squatting in the garage is probably top of my pet hit list, and the hyperactive chihuahua-cross next door is a close second. This last thought is what finally gets me moving. I clear the table and scrape the plates with the mushroom leftovers into a doggy bag to give to my neighbour as a gesture of goodwill. After all, they will be going through the upheaval of moving soon.
As I am completing this rather thoughtful task, the cat launches itself into a desperate lunge for the glass sliding-doors and comes to a sudden spread eagled halt (mainly because the sliding-doors are closed), before having an upheaval of its own and retching all over the glass and the newly cleaned carpets. I watch this fresh (extremely fresh) development with a rather detached air. How much can one humanely react to in a single day? And I suppose that, after all, it is probably my own fault for having the sliding-doors closed on a cold winter evening.
As I wash the dishes, and clean the glass, and scrub the carpet, I attempt to regain my earlier equilibrium by reflecting on the fact that my mother will soon be able to host her own dating service at the pearly gates. And anyway, if Bloody Elizabeth is to be a bridesmaid, then she will also be the one who has to endure countless salmon fittings with our mother, and if Diane goes into labour at the wedding then at least there will be something to look forward to. The expression on my mother’s face being the least of it, almost. I try to hold on to these promising thoughts because at least they distract me from the latest development in a day that started off pretty badly and has just kept outdoing itself as it goes along. I feel like my roller-coaster ride has veered off the tracks and is now balanced precariously on the edge of a cliff, and not a particularly picturesque one at that.
I can’t believe that, only this morning, I was feeling miserable because my life was just chock-a-block monotony. Now I feel miserable because my monotony looks like its chock has been blocked. And by events that are definitely not of my choosing. I would like to just curl up somewhere and ignore the fact that I no longer have a therapist, or a budgerigar, or an unattached mother, or a sister who isn’t pregnant. Well, I suppose I do have a sister who isn’t pregnant. At least, I hope so. And I can’t really wish that Diane wasn’t pregnant because it is obviously making her so happy. In fact, I don’t know what I want – and I think that might be the problem. But I’ll worry about that later. Besides, the house is too quiet for me to overlook the fact that Samantha and Ben are not here. And then it naturally follows that the reason they are not here is because they received a sudden, and extremely unusual, invitation to my ex-sister-in-law’s house for dinner.
I find this a little worrying, and very, very curious.
Not that I am naturally curious, I have enough trouble trying to work myself out at the best of times to keep curiosity about others fairly well in check. It is just that Alex’s sister rarely invites her niece and nephew over for a meal and never before at such short notice. The message was one of six on the answering machine when I finally remembered to check it earlier this evening and Samantha rang straight back to make the arrangements. The other five messages were: three from a rather strange and equally obnoxious girl at work called Joanne – heaven knows what she wants, and I have no intention of finding out. One from ex-husband number 2 asking me to please ensure that CJ is neatly dressed on Thursday when he collects her – not like last time (although I’m pretty sure she wasn’t in rags then either). And the last one from my best friend Teresa, who simply said that she really needed to speak to me so please ring back ASAP. I plan to call Terry later, but I must admit that I didn’t take much notice at the time because it was Maggie’s message that caught my attention.
My ex-sister-in-law Maggie (actually christened Mary Magdalene – talk about child abuse) usually avoids speaking to me. In fact I wouldn’t be all that surprised if she had checked to make sure that I wasn’t home bef
ore calling. Maggie is a short, rather odd and extremely rotund female (just imagine a bowling ball with arms and legs) about eight years older than Alex who teaches at one of the local secondary schools. She shares her home with another female teacher (yes, I have often wondered as well), three dogs and thirteen cats at the last count. She heartily dislikes me because she has a theory that her brother is a one-woman man and that my defection has ruined him forever.
I wish.
I have no idea what she bases this idea on (although it shows a rather interesting lack of knowledge about men). The reports from the children suggest that the only one-woman facet of Alex is having one woman at a time (and even that surmise is only circumstantial), and if he is ruined, then it is only because he has worn it out.
I occupy myself by cleaning up the house and make a concerted effort to clear my mind of pets, parents, siblings and offspring. Then I refill my wineglass and, starting at the kitchen, begin to wander through each of the rooms slowly. This is a form of therapy that I have personally invented for when I have too much on my plate (in a metaphorical, not mushroom, sense) and need to ground myself with what I have.
Because I do love my house.
I love everything it represents – independence, perseverance, security, family, roots. I love every painstakingly repainted wall (even the absurd emerald green and violet combination chosen by Sam for her room, and the howling-wolves-at-dusk wall paper border chosen by Ben for his), and I love my eclectic collection of ancient furniture which will one day (perhaps not in my day, but one day) qualify as genuine antiques. I love my L-shaped dining room cum lounge-room, my kitchen and also my tiny little meals area next to the kitchen which can barely fit a small table and two chairs. I even love my archaic bathroom with its shower-over-the-bath despite its mosaic brown-flecked minuscule tiles which cover every (and I mean every) available surface and which I shall replace with gusto as soon as I have the necessary funds. Revolting or not, it’s still mine. I end my meandering, uplifting tour in my own bedroom that is dominated by a large 1950s walnut bed-head and matching wardrobe (which were an absolute bargain at a local garage sale last year). As I sit down on the floral-peach (definitely not salmon, not even close) covered doona, take a sip of my wine and look around me, I can actually feel the pleasure I take in this room seeping into my bones, helping me to relax and put everything in perspective.
I love my house.
I take another sip and smile as I begin to feel better. However, one of the things that I have learnt with age is that even pleasure has its limits – and it is very difficult to sit and do nothing for an extended period of time. So when, after about fifteen minutes, it starts to feel odd that the house is so quiet and I am so unoccupied, I decide to get my clothes ready for work tomorrow. As usual the outfits I want to wear don’t fit, and the ones I’ll have to wear are either in the wash or need ironing – and I’m not that motivated. In addition, I cannot find one of my favourite shoes anywhere. I pick up my glass, which is now half-empty, and make a mental note to consider enrolling in one of those get-yourself-organised classes. I can always use the money that I would have spent on therapy.
In her room, CJ has fallen asleep on top of her Barbie doona so I put my glass down on her bedside table, wipe her tear-stained little face and kiss her gently before rearranging her securely into the bed.
‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite,’ I whisper softly as I feel riddled with guilt. I should never have sent her off like that – I mean, the mushrooms were revolting after all. And I bet she didn’t brush her teeth on the way. I sit down on the bed next to her and tenderly smooth the blonde tendrils back from her face. It never ceases to amaze me just how angelically beautiful young children look while they are asleep. My heart involuntarily contracts as I tuck her doona up and that’s when I notice the crumpled photograph of her father she has clutched to her bosom.
Oh well.
MONDAY
10.42 pm
What is it that I want? I’m back to the same old question that refuses to be answered. That’s why I went to therapy in the first place – to get some answers. But I seem to have ended up with more questions. What the hell is wrong? Apart from the fact that my mother is getting remarried, and my sister has decided to add to the population growth. I mean, these are just more bloody straws – and the camel’s back was already pretty bowed down. So, is this a mid-life crisis? Do I need to buy a red sports car, dress inappropriately, or have an affair with a blond half my age to make myself feel better? Well, actually I suppose the blond couldn’t hurt. But, then again, the underlying problem would still be there after my breathing returned to normal. And I just don’t know what the underlying problem is. Apart from the fact that I’m not terribly happy – and that the unhappiness feels like it’s turning into some sort of internal heaviness that is perpetually weighing down my every action. But it’s not like true depression – I’ve read about that hell – more like I’m stuck fast in a rut and I can’t seem to pull myself out. Even if I knew which direction ‘out’ was. Maybe that’s the damn source. I take a deep breath because I will not let this get me down. I will not, I will not. After all, isn’t happiness supposed to be just a state of mind?
I prop myself up on my pillows and have a look at the time. For goodness sake, where are those kids? I decide that I’ll simply have to dig up Maggie’s number soon and phone her to demand the immediate return of my offspring. I’ll give them ten more minutes and then I’ll take action. I flop my head back down on the pillows and stare up at the darkened ceiling. The scary thing about the way I have been feeling lately is that I have felt a little bit similar once before. Just prior to my first marriage break-up, in fact. I remember feeling utterly miserable and trapped by monotony – which is why, as the marriage slowly disintegrated, I hardly raised a finger to prevent it happening. And I am still not sure whether or not this was a good thing. Which is why I am so nervous of taking any sort of drastic action to shake my life up now – what if I regret it? What if I make another mistake? What if there is no going back?
I roll over and check out the time again but there is still four minutes until my deadline. Flipping back on the bed, I decide that what I need is someone to tell me what to do and what direction to head in. Someone to pick up my life and give it an almighty shake. I don’t mind picking up the pieces and putting them back together – I’ve done it before. It’ll be like a jigsaw – only this time I won’t take my eyes off all the pieces, that’s for sure. It’s just that lately I seem to have lost sight of the big picture – and I really need to see that in order to give everything else purpose. Which is why letting go of my therapist was probably not the most intelligent move I’ve made lately. I sigh heavily. God, I can be such a dimwit.
I roll over again and peer at the glowing numerals on the clock. That’s it – ten minutes are up. Damn it, I really don’t feel like having to take action. But as I start to pull the covers back and put one foot on the floor, I hear a car door slam – and then another one.
I leap back into bed quickly and pull the covers up. Then I pick up a book and rearrange the pillows to give the impression that I was nonchalantly reading rather than experiencing any concern about their whereabouts. I listen to the footsteps crunching down the driveway, Sam’s key turning in the lock, the door being flung open, the hat-stand falling on top of Ben, Ben swearing, and then they are both peering in my bedroom doorway.
‘Mum, are you asleep?’
‘No, I was just reading. Goodness, look at the time! Why are you so late?’
‘How could you be reading with the light off?’
‘Um … I must have dozed off? Anyway, that’s not important, sit down and tell me what happened.’ I pat the bed next to me invitingly and Samantha throws herself down but Ben remains standing defensively in the doorway.
‘It wasn’t my fault, someone left the hat-stand all crooked!’
‘Don’t blame other people, Benjamin … and anyway, I didn’t mean that, I meant
what happened at your aunt’s and why are you both so late?’
‘Oh, Aunt Maggie said it would be okay coz we hadn’t seen her for absolutely ages and besides, we had to wait for Aunt Ruby to finish whatever she was doing and drive us.’
‘Aunt Ruby?’
‘She told us to call her that – she’s really nice, Mum.’
‘I bet she is. Anyway, how was dinner and why the sudden invitation?’
‘Oh! Guess what? The most terrific news! You’ll never ever guess!’ In his enthusiasm Ben abandons the doorway to join his sister on the bed as I experience a rather disconcerting feeling of déjà vu. I’m quite sure that I have heard almost exactly the same words earlier today, and so it is with a sinking heart that I plaster a look of excited anticipation on my face and say with considerable feeling:
‘Just tell me – now please.’
‘Well, Dad is coming –’
‘I want to tell her! Mum, Dad is coming to –’
‘No! No! I’m telling her! MumDadisgoingtogo –’
‘SHUT UP, Benjamin!’
‘That’s enough! You’ll wake CJ if you keep this up! Now, take it in turns and stop arguing. Is your father coming or going?’
‘He’s coming! He’s coming back here in February to live in Australia and he’s going to be able to see us all the time because he’s already bought a house right near us!’
‘Sam, I wanted to tell something! You’re a real bitch!’
‘Benjamin, watch your language.’ I say this automatically because I am still rather stunned by their – or rather, her – announcement. My roller coaster is rocking and the cliffs are looming. I summon up the necessary courage to ask the all-important question and pride myself on the fact that my voice barely quavers …
‘How near is right near?’
‘I want to tell! It’s my turn!’