Sex, Lies and Bonsai

by Lisa Walker

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘The purpose of this therapy is to find out what is going on in your subconscious, because your subconscious affects your behaviour. This is called making the unconscious, conscious.’

  ‘Did you pass this subject?’

  ‘Edie, I am a highly trained therapist. In fact, if I were you I would be careful what you say around me. For example, when you questioned my competence — that is called transference. You are projecting feelings about someone else onto your therapist. So, tell me, whose competence do you really doubt?’

  ‘My own?’

  ‘Aha.’ Sally’s pen scratches on paper. ‘Interesting. Very interesting.’

  ‘That’s good, Sal. I like the way you say that.’

  ‘Do you?’ Sally smiles. ‘Thanks. I’m trying for a kind of pondering psychoanalyst thing. It’s working?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s good. I’d throw in the odd “I see, I see” too if I were you.’

  ‘Mmm, great idea.’ Sally’s pen scratches again. ‘Okay, lie back and relax. Don’t look at me.’ She wheels the chair back so I can’t see her without twisting my head. ‘There. Now I am a blank slate on which you can project your subconscious.’ She sounds like she is reading from lecture notes. ‘Now, Edie, some free association: what do you think of when I say…worms.’

  ‘Worms?’ I squeak. ‘Why worms?’

  ‘Vy not vorms?’ Sally puts on a German accent. ‘Vat are you trying to avoid?’

  ‘Have I ever spoken to you about worms?’

  ‘Only once. In an email you sent after you and Daniel broke up. You said, and I quote, “the worms came between us”.’

  ‘It was a typo. I meant words.’

  ‘Aha. A Freudian slip, then. Why do you think about worms when you mean words? I still sink ve should talk about vorms.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about worms.’

  ‘I see, I see.’ Sally’s pen scratches. ‘I note that the patient does not want to talk about worms. Penis envy.’ These last words are murmured.

  ‘Pardon? What did you just say?’

  ‘Penis envy. Worms are a phallic symbol.’

  ‘What’s phallic about worms?’

  ‘In Freudian therapy anything long and slender is a penis.’

  ‘Sally, is this ethical, for you to be doing therapy on me? I mean, you’re my friend.’

  ‘Since when were you concerned with ethics? Okay, if you don’t want to talk about worms, tell me about your dreams.’ Sally’s notebook rustles. ‘Recurring dreams are particularly significant. They mean your subconscious is trying to work something out.’

  ‘Well, as it happens…’ I fill Sally in on my recurring nude hiking dream.

  ‘Strictly speaking,’ says Sal, ‘this is a nude tramping dream. They call it tramping in New Zealand, not hiking.’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘I will decide what is relevant. Now, let’s see…’ She leafs through her notes. ‘Nudity means that you have a fear of exposure. Does that resonate with you?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘However, the fact that this man doesn’t worry about your nudity means that you may be unnecessarily concerned. Do you recognise him?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I’ve even looked at his face.’

  ‘Well, try and take a look at his face next time. Your subconscious is telling you that you don’t need to be scared of exposing yourself in front of him.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks. That is surprisingly useful. You’re worth more money.’

  ‘See,’ says Sal. ‘Psychoanalysis is easy. I just needed to get warmed up.’

  Freudian analysis over, Sally and I chat for a while. ‘So what’s happening with you and Jay?’ she asks.

  Hearing his name makes my chest ache. ‘We’re not talking.’

  Sally frowns. ‘Why don’t you tell him that that you and Ralph never, you know…?’ Sally makes it seem so uncomplicated. She just forges ahead and obstacles vanish in her path, while for me they sprout like mushrooms.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘It’s not like Jay and me were…in a relationship or anything. I’d end up sounding stupid. Nothing happened between us.’ That is not true — plenty happened, but now it seems hard to define.

  Sally squeezes my hand. ‘Plenty of fish in the sea.’

  But it’s never seemed that way to me.

  Once Sally is gone I open another Mars Bar then Google ‘fear of worms’ . There is even a name for it: vermiphobia. Freud says that vermiphobia is related to a fear of death and dying. Freud says a lot of weird stuff. At least it isn’t fear of penises. Sally had me worried there for a while.

  I finish my chocolate. Talking to Sally has cheered me up a little, but not enough. I think perhaps I need to talk to someone who knows what it is to suffer. I drum my fingers on the keyboard. Yes, the time has come to enter into an email correspondence with my beloved Nigerian, Philip.

  Do what you want, says the bonsai in a weary tone. I know you will anyway.

  I decide to take that as an endorsement. My fingers race over the keyboard.

  Dear Beloved,

  I hope you don’t mind me calling you Beloved, as you have me. Although I have never replied to your emails I have read them with interest. It must be very sad for you that I am the only person you can trust. Unfortunately, I am not in a position to take care of your fortune but I am happy to talk to you if you need a friend.

  I am in need of a friend myself. I fear that my best friend, Sally, is exploiting me for her own ends and I think that I might be in love with my uncle-in-law. Does this kind of thing happen much in Nigeria? My uncle-in-law now seems to hate me due to a misunderstanding and is in a very bad mood. You and I may have much in common in our misery.

  Be blessed my beloved,

  Sooty Beaumont

  I check my emails about twenty times over the next couple of hours, but there is no reply. This is discouraging. I had been sure that Philip, if no one else, would be pleased to hear from me. Men — there’s no working them out.

  On Sunday night when I go to water the bonsai I see that it has not one leaf left on its spindly branches. I contemplate it for some time, then pick it up and place it in my rubbish bin. I don’t know if I am happy or sad to see the end of it. I have a strange feeling that, given time, I might have grown to like it. An ache in my chest reminds me that I haven’t filled out my pain chart today. I pick up my notebook and open it at the chart, click my pen open and shut and open again, start to write, then scribble it out. Then, on a sudden impulse, I tear out the chart, rip it into little pieces and scatter it like confetti over the bonsai. I have lost interest in my research.

  I look at the brittle skeleton in my bin and decide that a speech is in order. ‘Vale bonsai. I didn’t like you much, but you were a good tree in your own way, if a little harsh and judgmental. I salute your elegance, your spirit, your unerring judgment and your stoicism in the face of adversity.’

  I wonder if I should let Daniel know that his tree has gone to better pastures. I decide not.

  On Monday, I decide that I must take the crab between the pincers as it were. I cannot delay telling Professor Brownlow about my impending departure any longer. I stop by his desk on my way in and give a light cough.

  Professor Brownlow’s glasses glint in the fluorescent lights as he looks up. I am glad he is wearing his glasses — this would be so much worse if I had to gaze into his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, but…’ I chew my lip.

  Professor Brownlow waits.

  ‘I’m leaving on Friday.’

  He cocks his head. ‘Leaving?’

  I nod. ‘I’m going to Japan. I’m going to get a job teaching English.’

  Professor Brownlow frowns. ‘This isn’t because of…’ he taps his fingers, ‘the motel-room misunderstanding?’

  ‘No. I bought the ticket before that. I need a change. Everything’s been a bit strange here. The writing, and…other stuff.’

  Professor Brownlow takes off
his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose.

  I want to scream, Don’t do that, don’t make it any harder than it has to be.

  ‘The young man who was here the other night?’ he asks.

  I nod. ‘That’s one of the things.’

  ‘It wasn’t because of the fracas in the laboratory, was it?’

  I shrug. ‘Partly. Maybe. But, you know, if that’s the way he is, it’s better to find out sooner rather than later, right?’

  Professor Brownlow sighs. ‘Have you tried explaining it to him?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. I can’t talk to him. I don’t even want to. He’s turned into a different person.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Professor Brownlow. ‘That’s hard to deal with, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, it is. But the Tokyo thing; that was planned ages ago. And anyway, I don’t want my life to be ruled by other people anymore. I’m just going to let it go.’

  ‘We only need to practise letting go,’ says Professor Brownlow.

  I smile. The depths of Professor Brownlow’s literary knowledge astound me. ‘You read Rilke too. For a zoology lecturer you’d make a good literature teacher.’

  ‘Zoology is the what. Literature is the why. By the way, did that woman, Jennifer, catch up with you?’

  ‘Jennifer?’

  ‘Black hair, like this.’ Professor Brownlow gestures with his hands to indicate one side higher than the other.

  ‘Oh, her.’ I remember now that Djennifer was heading for the lab the other night, I assumed in search of crab erotica. ‘No. What did she want?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I ran into her in the corridor as I was leaving. She was looking for you. It was all so hectic…’

  ‘That’s one way of describing it.’

  Professor Brownlow smiles. ‘That strange man was a big fan of yours, wasn’t he?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I suppose Djennifer wants an autograph too.’

  Professor Brownlow looks doubtful. ‘Maybe. She said something about the divine feminine. I didn’t know what she meant.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I guess she’ll find me.’

  ‘I hope you’re going to take the opportunity to expand your knowledge of Japanese literature while you’re over there.’

  ‘I might.’

  Professor Brownlow gives me a long look.

  ‘Okay, I will. Definitely. Can’t wait.’

  He smiles. ‘There’ll be a test.’

  ‘You mean I can’t fob you off with Nori Toyota?’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’ll be back, won’t you? I’ll keep your job open for you.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ A stab of loneliness pierces me at the thought of Tokyo. I wonder if my Where is the toilet? conversation starter will come in handy there. Toire wa doko desu ka? Sadly, my limited Japanese means this line is unlikely to lead to a rewarding chat.

  Tokyo. Thirty-five million people and not one of them I know. Sally would say that’s thirty-five million opportunities to get to know someone new.

  But I am not Sally.

  Chapter Thirty

  Neurosis is the inability to tolerate

  ambiguity.

  SIGMUND FREUD

  Tuesday is a lonely day. I check my emails as always, but even My Beloved seems to have struck me from his email distribution list. This is the final blow. Sally is still trying to coax erotic literature out of me. She sends me enticing recipes: toad in the hole, bombe Alaska, tiramisu. They all have possibilities, but I am too sad to deliver.

  Sally calls on Wednesday before work and gives me a pep talk. ‘Edie, you are on a carousel going round and round. You need to find a horse that’s going to take you somewhere.’

  ‘One that isn’t attached to the merry-go-round, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I think I might be on one of those merry-go-rounds that have ducks and boats instead of horses.’

  ‘Ducks, boats, horses, the principle is the same. You need to take responsibility, kick some butt.’

  ‘I would if it wasn’t so tiring,’ I sigh. ‘I’m flat out just going round and round.’

  ‘The music’s going to stop soon, babe.’

  This sounds ominous. ‘You mean I could be stuck on a duck out of luck?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ says Sal.

  I open my self-improvement notebook after Sally hangs up. Get off the duck, I write.

  I do wonder sometimes where I am going with this self-improvement thing. I don’t really know what I hope to achieve. What is success? What is failure? The more I think about it, the more it recedes.

  And one of the problems with this question is that there is something I am avoiding. This something is so dazzling, so dangerous, that to tackle it would be like looking into the sun. I wonder how much longer I can hold out before I crack.

  On Thursday, in an effort to get off the carousel, I decide to run again. I move quickly before I can change my mind. Sliding out of bed, I pull on my runners. I then realise I am still wearing my bed shirt. This is an oversized Garfield T-shirt which hangs to mid-thigh. I root around in my cupboard for shorts, but can’t find them. My sole pair of shorts is in the wash.

  I could wear long pants? No, too hot. Or a dress? Too ridiculous. I could just give up… No. I won’t give up. I will run. I glance at myself in the cupboard-door mirror. I look a little odd, but I think I’ll pass. Who am I going to see, anyway?

  Kafka the cat is sitting on the footpath at the bottom of the stairs. He looks at me as I come down then coughs and spits out a furball in disgust.

  ‘Sorry Kafka, it’s just me. Gary’s gone. No rockstars here.’

  The cat stands up and stalks away.

  ‘I can read you some poems,’ I call after him, but he doesn’t turn his head.

  I set off. No one I pass seems surprised by my choice of running outfit. It is very practical, breezy. A little too breezy occasionally, but I am wearing big knickers, so that’s not a problem. I am running strongly. I am surprising myself. I run and run. I am a cheetah. I am Cathy Freeman.

  Then, all of a sudden, I am no longer surprising myself. Halfway to Darling Point I hit the wall. How can it happen like that? One moment I am running the one-minute mile, the next I am ready for a retirement home. My energy has drained out as if a plug has been pulled.

  I turn and stumble homewards, gasping like a high-altitude climber. The oxygen levels in the air seem depleted. There are lead weights in my shoes. Running is stupid. I am never doing it again. I know more than enough about pain anyway.

  As I limp up my street I spot a small blue car parked at the bottom of the stairs. Getting closer, I see an Airport Rentals sticker on the back. A man is sitting in the driver’s seat watching me in the rear-view mirror. The back of his head is familiar. I freeze.

  Two weeks ago the sight of that head would have made my stomach erupt in a locust plague of excitement. I test my reactions. No locust plague. I feel…curious, but also slightly alarmed. What on earth is Daniel doing here?

  The bonsai. He’s come for his bonsai. My eyes dart to the bin outside our garage. Thursday is garbage collection day.

  Daniel steps out of the car. His eyes flicker over me.

  Even though I think I am no longer in love with Daniel, I still wish my legs weren’t so red, my Garfield T-shirt wasn’t so sweat-soaked, my hair so unattractively sticking to my head. Too late, I remember the article I read in the women’s mag while I was in the queue at the supermarket. Damn. Those women’s mags are more prescient than I give them credit for. Where is the trendy burqa when you need it?

  Daniel, of course, is immaculate. He looks like he has just stepped out of the shower. He is wearing a light-blue, long-sleeved shirt, rolled up to expose his forearms. Light-brown pants and polished brown shoes complement this smart-casual lawyer look. His dark hair is cut shorter than it used to be. It suits him. I had almost forgotten how handsome Daniel is, but I still don’t think I am in love with him.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  Daniel’s reply i
s drowned out by the roar of the garbage truck.

  I try to distract him by saying, ‘What?’ in a loud voice, but he is riveted by the sight of the truck.

  It is no exaggeration to say that Daniel is a garbage Nazi. Our weekly throwaway garbage never exceeded the size of a shopping bag. Not that we had plastic shopping bags. If I was ever unable to turn down a bag when shopping — you know how forceful some sales assistants are — I made damn sure I got rid of it before arriving home.

  Knowing Daniel, he is now waiting to see if I have separated my recycling correctly. I never realised how much was involved in recycling until I met Daniel. It is not enough just to separate paper from plastic, you need to know the different types of plastic and wash them out thoroughly. And, of course, your food and vegetable waste must never go in the garbage; it must be put in a compost bin.

  Or fed to worms.

  The combination of Daniel and the garbage truck forces me to think of something I would rather forget.

  In Daniel’s flat, which became our flat, lived a big black plastic box filled with earthworms. Their function was to eat our scraps. At night I was sure I could hear them munching on apple cores and passing leftover broccoli through their digestive tracts. I tried not to listen, but I couldn’t help it.

  I’d nudge Daniel awake, ‘Can you hear that noise?’

  ‘What noise?’

  ‘The worms.’

  ‘Worms don’t make a noise.’

  But they did — a slithery, slurpy, chompy noise. They gave me the creeps but I couldn’t tell Daniel. It is silly to be scared of earthworms just because they’re:

  slimy,

  wriggly, and

  really, really, really sinister.

  I asked Daniel early on in our relationship how many worms were in there.

  ‘There were two thousand to begin with, but they’ve been breeding so… Are you all right Edie?’

  He must have noticed how pale I was. I’d been thinking ten or twenty tops. Two thousand? And breeding? Earthworms were breeding in our lounge room?

  Daniel gazed lovingly at his worm farm. ‘Annelids breed every seven to ten days and double their population every two or three months.’

  ‘Annelids?’

  ‘Segmented worms. What’s interesting is that they’re hermaphrodite.’