Dessi's Romance

by Goldie Alexander

  Personally, I’m proud of possessing an internal ‘fail-safe device’. Look at how well I handled that breakup with Jon McKenna. If it wasn’t for that accident, I would almost have forgotten he even existed.

  Back in my chair, still restless, still mildly bilious, in pain and totally exhausted, I flick the remote and come to a program on Indigenous Affairs. Three weeks ago, I’d hoped to take Anthropology as part of my degree. But now, how will I cross a campus on crutches?

  I raise the remote and shoot the TV.

  6. EMMA, Flying North

  ‘Listen to this!’ Julie’s cry comes from the living room.

  The morning after my big date with Abdul, I emerge half asleep from my room. ‘What is it?’

  Julie is clutching a sheet of paper. ‘This came in the mail.’ Her voice is low and wobbly. ‘From the clinic.’

  ‘What clinic?’ I ask impatiently.

  ‘You know, where I had that mammogram.’

  ‘Give it here.’ I sit beside her. Suddenly my eyes won’t focus: ‘…discrepancies in your results…nine times out of ten…a biopsy…counseling available...’

  Fear pricks at me. ‘Oh, Mum!’

  Julie’s face is grey. ‘Emma, what if I’ve got cancer…’

  ‘Look… LOOK right here.’ I do my best to ignore a heart-hiccup because I know this is Mum’s usual way of demanding attention. If only she could find a new partner to take some of the strain off me. Sure, she has Hannah to confide in, but having a close friend isn’t enough… not when Hannah has a new job, Graham is renovating and Dessi is laid up with a broken ankle.

  I shove the letter under her nose. ‘Read it again. Nine times out of ten it says it’s probably nothing. Those machines make mistakes. You don’t feel sick, do you?’

  ‘No, but...’

  ‘Have you felt a lump or anything? Is that why you had the mammogram? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Julie is still pretty if a little plump, and though I love using her as a model, telltale lines around her eyes and mouth says lots about her anxieties, many to do with her health. She says, ‘I thought I did tell you. And no, I didn’t detect a lump or anything. I do that test every two years.’

  She’s making too big a deal about this, I decide.

  ‘I suppose I could ask Hannah to go with me,’ she says slowly. ‘Seeing you won’t be here,’ she adds in her little-girl-martyr voice.

  I refuse to be blackmailed. ‘Yeah, great,’ I cry. ‘Of course Hannah will go with you.’

  ‘They say cancer can be brought on by stress.’ Her mouth falls into discontented lines and her chin wobbles slightly. ‘It’s been very stressful since your father left.’

  Here we go again! In my opinion there’s nothing wrong with Julie that a well-paid job wouldn’t cure. Three years since my dad Robert left with ‘that little slut of a secretary’. Not that I’ve ever met Laura, or even had much contact with him apart from birthday and Christmas presents. Still, I can tell Julie a thing or two about ‘stress’ and how that break-up affected me. But she doesn’t want to hear. She’s too busy being the wronged wife. I groan to myself. Half the kids in my class have divorced parents and the mums usually find a new job, a new partner, a new life.

  She begins to cry. Oh no, not this again. If only I could float away like Chagall’s young lovers. Despite my growing anger, I can’t help feeling sorry for her, so I give her a big hug, keep my tone light, and say, ‘Come on, Mum… You’ll be okay. It’s sure to be a mistake. Like a coffee?’

  She sniffles into her hanky, blows her nose and nods. ‘Do you think coffee is a carcinogen?’ she asks in a small voice.

  I grit my teeth. ‘I don’t know, Mum.’ Brewing coffee, I watch her. She doesn’t look sick, but like she always does: untidy and overweight. Nothing that some exercise, a decent haircut and a job wouldn’t cure. As usual she’s over-reacting. The phone rings. I answer it and heave a sigh of relief. ‘It’s for you, Mum. Hannah.’

  Great, I’m off the hook.

  Next day, and because I know this conversation will be fraught, I’ve left it for the last minute to say casual-like, ‘Might go and see Robert while I’m up there. What do you think, Mum?’

  She isn’t keen. I can tell by the way her mouth scrunches up and her chin wobbles. ‘Why would you want to do that? I thought you were still mad at him. I know I am. Anyway, you two haven’t spoken in ages. Why the sudden change?’

  ‘See how they live? Maybe get some money out of him?’

  ‘He sends just enough to keep us going, no more than he has to. You know that, Em. And you also know what a struggle it’s been to keep you at school.’

  She seems to forget that I’ve worked part-time in the supermarket-from-hell since I was fifteen. No thanks for being independent.

  ‘Doesn’t matter about my feelings, does it?’ she adds in her little girl voice.

  ‘He did send me $500 towards this trip.’ I remind her. ‘The least I can do is visit.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ She picks up her copy of What Your Dreams Mean to show this discussion is over.

  If only I earned enough to move away from home friend, but not for the first time, do I envy her for everything, except of course, this la. Lucky Dessi never has these problems. I love Dessi, can’t imagine life without my closest test disaster. If Julie could only find a decent job, maybe she could spare some extra cash for her daughter. Though I usually spend every cent I earn on art materials and vintage clothes, this time I’ve managed to save $800. Plus the $500 Dad sent me. If I’m careful that should be enough. Clever Dessi found that by booking our own airfares and accommodation rather than going through the official ‘Schoolies Travel’ we’d save heaps. So now we’re staying in a high-rise unit at Broadbeach. Everyone else will be in Surfers, but I’ve checked this out and Broadbeach is only a bus-ride away.

  All the same, I know I’m going to miss Dessi. And I worry that she’ll get too depressed back here all alone. The truth is, I feel responsible for that accident. Didn’t I ask Jon for a lift when she was so against it? I sigh to myself then say, ‘Mum, I’m going to finish packing,’ and escape to my room.

  This doesn’t take long because I’ve heard that there’s great shopping on the Coast. I double check that my sketchbook, charcoal, fine-line pens, the small box of water colour crayons, cell phone and iPod are in my second backpack. Dessi wants me to phone/ sketch/ text. It’s the least I can do.

  I check my watch. Abdul should be here by now.

  I’d asked him to drive me to the airport. At first he agreed, then looked doubtful, so maybe I did push too much. Still, we have seen each other twice already, once when I took him to meet Dessi and later when he picked me up and took me to Chapel’s. Or maybe that only counts as once.

  Still, when he brought me home, I made us a coffee and then showed him some of my latest work. His comments were perceptive. What a relief after Danny who wouldn’t know a Renoir from a Picasso and cared even less. Julie was in bed snoring lightly so I expected us to continue where we’d left off. But he shook his head and stood up to leave. ‘Got an early morning meeting, and I’m flat out all tomorrow. But I’ll try and get you to the airport. If I can’t, I’ll call.’

  Yet it’s gone eleven, I have to be there by one, and I still haven’t heard. I call his cell phone. Voicemail. I try his landline. Waiting, I peer at my reflection, wonder if I need a darker lipstick, but then maybe my lips are pink enough with just a slick of gloss...

  ‘Yes?’ A woman, Abdul’s mother? has picked up the phone

  ‘Hullo.’ I say in my politest voice, ‘Is Abdul there, please?’

  ‘Abdul not here. Who is this?’

  ‘Uh… Emma… Emma Simpson.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She’s not exactly encouraging. ‘Did he say anything about taking me to the airport, Mrs Malouf?’ I press on.

  ‘Airport? Abdul say nothing about airport. He gone out.’ She hangs up.

  I have that old familiar sinking feeling. So far all
the men in my life have proven themselves unreliable. Should be an Olympics for men I angrily think; gold medals for deserting fathers and ‘on and off again’ lovers.

  I find Julie reading her horoscope. ‘Mum, can you drive me to Tullamarine?’

  She doesn’t look up. ‘Thought Abdul was taking you.’

  ‘Well he’s not here and I don’t want to miss the plane.’

  ‘Oh, all right I suppose,’ she says, reluctant. ‘Though you know how expensive it is filling the car and there’s the toll.’

  ‘Can we call into Dessi on the way?’

  ‘No. Won’t be time.’

  I did speak to Dessi earlier on, but feeling a bit lost, I phone her again.

  ‘Isn’t Abdul there?’

  ‘Uh, no,’ I mumble though it reinforces the idea that he isn’t as interested in me as I am in him.

  ‘What a bummer!’ Dessi feels for my disappointment.

  ‘He said he’ll call you while I’m gone.’ And determined to ignore my inner feeling and knowing I can always depend on her, I add, ‘Find out why he didn’t come, will you?’

  ‘Sure. Stay safe. I wish…how I wish I was coming with you.’ I can tell she’s on the verge of tears.

  ‘I’ll text so often you’ll be happy not to hear from me. Just look after yourself…will you?’

  ‘Course,’ she murmurs. ‘Have a great time. Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Julie’s driving is haphazard and we only dodge one of those double loaders by a hand’s breadth. As we cross Westgate Bridge, I refuse to brood about Abdul. Instead I decide this would be a great place to take photos for a series of paintings showing clouds and light altering at different times of the day. Mum’s mind still on her latest problem, she dumps me at the departures entrance and drives away.

  ‘Hi, Emma,’ Kaz yells as she and Jodie rush over. ‘We’ve got to check in. Hurry up. You should’ve got here sooner.’

  The queue to get through security seems endless and we’re the last to board. Settled beside Kaz and Jodie, I feel a terrible pang of loss that Dessi isn’t beside me. I look out to fluffy white clouds like peaks of cake frosting and between gaps, a crazy patchwork-landscape. I break this up in my mind, aware that only in new ways can I capture its essence. Whenever my thoughts drift to wondering why Abdul didn’t bother calling, I tell myself he must’ve lost my number.

  Two hours later after all the magazines are read and we’ve spent too much on snacks and drinks, and I’ve listened to Kaz and Jodie’s endless squabbling, we arrive on the Gold Coast. I marvel at a sky that is so clear and blue it makes my eyes water. Fishing in my backpack for sunglasses, I slide them on to absorb grass and trees so richly green nothing seems real.

  Kaz sets off first, trundling her case behind her. ‘Let’s find the bus that goes to Broadbeach.’

  ‘Broadbeach?’ A guy in a peaked cap standing by a white limo overhears. He holds open the door. ‘I’ll run you in for ten dollars each. How’s that sound?’

  We stare at each other. ‘Hey,’ says Kaz. ‘What d’you say, guys? The limo?’

  ‘Why not?’ I cry. Right now I feel rich. ‘Let’s arrive in style.’

  The guy puts our bags in his boot and we pile into his car.

  ‘Hope someone sees us,’ Jodie carols.

  I don’t care. Even without Dessi being here, and Abdul letting me down, I have a feeling that this holiday is going to be terrific.

  Our unit is on the twelfth floor on the beachfront. I have one bedroom with two beds and the use of the main bathroom. The other bed reminds me how much I’ll miss Dessi.

  Kaz and Jodie have the main bedroom and a small ensuite. These clean white walls, a midnight blue carpet and grey tiled bathrooms and kitchen, are such a contrast to our shabby weather-board cottage I’m determined one day to live like this.

  From our balcony we can look out over a wide stretch of yellow sand and then a vast ocean stretching towards the horizon. The beach is in shadow already and it’s only five o’clock. The sky is clear, the air soft and balmy. While the others settle in, I uses an HB pencil and a splash of water-crayon to do two quick sketches; one of my room, the other from the balcony.

  Then I wander back into the living room where Kaz and Jodie are getting ready to go out. Watching them reminds me of my final portfolio where I copied a portrait of two eighteenth century sisters, but put them in modern gear. Sacha says I should be concentrating more on using Found Objects. But that was what most of our class was doing and I wanted to be different. Anyway, our art teacher particularly liked my mega-sized portrait of ‘Dessi’. I based this on a photo I cropped, photo-shopped, then finished it on canvas with fine strokes of black ink. The result is Dessi’s typical expression: a mix of mischief and wistfulness.

  Jodie chips into my thoughts. ‘Okay, what’s on for tonight?’

  ‘We should go shopping for food an’ stuff,’ Jodie mumbles. ‘Can anyone cook?’

  ‘Who wants to cook?’ Kaz carols. ‘We can eat out, can’t we?’

  ‘Sacha wants to meet up with us,’ I remind the others. ‘I’ve told him where we’re staying.’

  Sacha is my other closest of close friends as he shares my passion for art. Next year he hopes to get into a Graphics or Design course. I like Sacha a lot, there’s no tension in him, not like with other guys who are always trying to maul me.

  Jodie goes for her cell phone. ‘I’ll text him.’

  ‘I think she’s keen on the old Sash.’ Kaz’s sharp features slide into a grin. ‘And we all know where that’ll lead. Do you reckon he’ll ‘come out’ while we’re here?’

  ‘He’s ‘come out’ already,’ I snap. I hate it when anyone makes fun of Sacha being gay.

  ‘Yeah, he’s ‘come out’, but only with us. Any gay bars up here?’

  ‘How would I know?’ I murmur and turn away.

  ‘He’s coming over right now,’ Jodie reports.

  Jodie’s parents are wealthy and she always has tons of cash. Not that she’s generous. This reminds me to be more careful with money. Which brings my thoughts to my father. I’d better phone him soon and make contact.

  7. DESSI, Melbourne

  I wait for Emma to put down the phone. I just hope she isn’t too upset by Abdul not picking her up. What a jerk! Shame I can’t be there to console her. Determined not to mope for either her or myself, I pick up the book she left behind to skim through some of the poems. What interrupts as usual is that bloody ankle. As I keep massaging it, my thoughts drift towards Abdul. I recall that shock as he walked in when I know I’ve never laid eyes on him before. In any case, nothing explains the stirring I felt when I first saw him. What can this mean? Emma did ask him to phone. What will I do when he does? What if Emma’s right? What if a good ‘best friend’ needs to keep an eye on her friend’s new guy? But what if this ‘best friend’ suspects the guy’s interests are leaning towards her? What is she supposed to do then... particularly if she rather likes him herself?

  Two minutes later Hannah, in business suit and heels, clatters into the kitchen. ‘You okay love?’

  I just scowl. No way am I going to let her off with thinking I’m okay. Right now I need far more loving care than Hannah, or anyone else for that matter, can provide. With as much dignity as I can manage, I inspect what she’s brought home. Bread. Meat. Low-fat milk. Fruit. Vegetables.

  Boring!

  I pretend not to hear Hannah’s ‘Darling, how did your day go…’ and crutch despondently up the hall.

  Graham has left great-grand-aunts Lilbet and Ella’s chest in the front bedroom. I squat on the floor and open it. Inside are yellowing linen table-clothes, frayed towels, a box filled with cutlery blackened with age. At the very bottom, two large leather-covered books.

  I settle myself more comfortably. Once shopping catalogues, the books show clothes and furniture sold in the early fifties. Even more absorbing is that these pages were also used as diaries. Some have sketches and poems written in a shaky hand:


  “Hickory, dickory dock.

  Ella has sewed a fine frock.”

  With many, many thanks, Lilbet.

  Under this an excellent sketch of a dress with short puffy sleeves, a rounded neck and full skirt caught into a wide belt. This had to be Ella’s work as Lilbet was too disabled to draw or sew.

  I find more of Ella’s sketches. Several are of this house plus some lovely water-colours labelled ‘Flinders’. One is a wide street lined with pine trees. Others look out to sea with a jetty surrounded by fishing boats. Pasted amongst the drawings are invitations to engagements, weddings, ‘soirées’; and ‘thank-you’ notes for bridge evenings, concerts, afternoon teas, and ‘war-effort’ parties. Each is addressed to both Miss Ella Cowan and Miss Elizabeth Cowan. The dates run from well before World War 2 to the early 1970s.

  I know that part of our family who migrated to Australia in the 1880s had remained Jewish, while Graham’s grandfather, Benjamin Cohen, became Anglican. I suspect that it was Benjamin who altered the original spelling of ‘Cohen’ to ‘Cowan’.

  What a find! I suspect I’m holding a social history of the mid-twentieth century. I remember Ms Harcourt, my history teacher, saying, ‘History helps us understand how the present is influenced by the past.’

  Distracted by the fire-ants in my boot that never leave off, I use a knitting needle to scratch while I look over my find. What would my future children think if they come across the messages I send Emma? Not that that they ever can. All lost in cyberspace. But best friends always text each other even when they’re in the same room. Paying for my SIM-card was one of the reasons I needed that job in the supermarket-from-hell.

  Brooding about money or the serious lack of, reminds me of our family. Since Graham took early retirement, he’s always scolding Hannah for bringing in ‘take-away’. But we hate everything he cooks. Though Hannah keeps reminding Dad she’s on a decent salary, he complains about lights left on and dripping taps. Recently the atmosphere round here has become so tense, Jeremy has started staying overnight at Justin’s house.